


Flame Upon The Mountain

by Porphyrios



Series: Crown of Teeth [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aging, Alternate Universe - Erebor Never Fell, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sequel, Spycraft, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:56:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 52,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23778745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Porphyrios/pseuds/Porphyrios
Summary: In this sequel to Crown of Teeth, Heart of Flesh, fifty years have passed.  Bilbo is old and wants to rest, but dark forces are moving in the world.  Word reaches him that his nephew is in danger, but Erebor has its own problems.  Shadows gather upon Arda, and enemies are everywhere.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins & Thorin Oakenshield, Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Series: Crown of Teeth [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1713004
Comments: 140
Kudos: 121





	1. Chapter 1

"See him, lad... that's Bilbo Silvertongue! He's King Thorin's Consort." The older dwarf pointed as the white-haired hobbit walked slowly past in the Great Market of Erebor, leaning on his ebony cane and closely followed by a young dwarven bodyguard, twin swords at his side. The youngling, barely showing the first wisps of beard, gaped at the sight of what might very well be the first person he'd ever seen who wasn't a dwarf. Bilbo's bodyguard Vurn son of Vorin preened and flexed his muscles, unable to resist the urge to show off his responsibility for such an important personage.

Bilbo rolled his eyes but resisted the urge to be ungracious. After fifty years of being married to Thorin, he was used to dwarves and their peculiarities, and their inability to speak in a proper whisper was one of the least peculiar. At least Silvertongue was one of his least annoying public usenames and epithets; Silvertongue (though there were rumors the High Council called him Acidtongue, which he liked better), Gift-giver, Crownbearer, Axe-Bringer, Mahal's Hand (and damn Nar for that one)... confound the dwarves and their penchant for naming! He directed a kindly smile at the overawed youngling, one of the surprisingly many that had been born in Erebor in the past few decades, but kept moving. He had walked all the way down here looking for a particular merchant from Khand, and he knew from decades of experience, once he started speaking with the public all errands were at an end. If he was going to put his poor old knees and hips through this, he reasoned, he'd better go back with something to show for it. A persistent pain in his chest made him rub at it absently; he'd had it off and on for over a year now, but it certainly was yet another aspect of aging he didn't enjoy. Looking up at the massive image of Mahal brandishing his hammer over an anvil, he asked for patience (as he always did in the Market), and also offered thanks for all the unlooked-for blessings he had received in life (as he also always did). Leaning over to Vurn once the two had reached a safe distance, he said quietly "You'd think they'd be used to seeing me by now. I've only lived in this mountain for fifty years." Vurn looked a bit shocked (really, Bilbo thought, he's been with me for months and he's still not used to being spoken to? Where does Dwalin find these children?)

"Uh... yes, your highness." All Vurn's bravado from moments earlier was gone. When it became apparent that nothing more would be forthcoming, Bilbo sighed silently and looked around the food quarter. Stopping a passing market warden, he asked about his quarry.

"Pardon me," he said, resisting the urge to chuckle at warden's obvious shock at seeing the Prince Consort in the Market proper, "have you seen the merchant Talshiz? He's Khandhari, but human... he comes in with the Stiffbeards, usually, and they've been in for two days. Thought I'd nip down for a browse with him while the Stiffbeards were monopolizing Thorin's time. He brings magnificent exotics and spices, you should stop by if it turns out he's here! I was hoping he'd set up in one of the traveler's stalls." He twinkled a smile at the sturdy warden, feeling absurdly like one of the stuffy old grandfathers he used to mock as a faunt in the Shire; a feeling that was becoming increasingly common. The warden thought for a moment.

"Beggin' yer pardon, highness, but I ain't seen him. Big tall feller, ain't he? Dark skin, gold and ruby ring, heavy gold hoop earrings?" Bilbo nodded, quite familiar with the practice of cataloging people by their jewelry and visible assets. "If he were here, he'd usually be on the inner seventh ring, but this season we've had less than usual traffic from the south for some reason, so even some of the regulars didn't come this season. You might try sixth outer, I haven't passed through there today." Interesting, Bilbo thought. His knees cursed him at the thought of walking a quarter the length of both the sixth and seventh ring looking for Talshiz, but there were several reasons to do so. He sighed and smiled graciously.

"Thank you, you've been a tremendous help." The warden bowed and moved off. Grumbling, he headed off to the main thoroughfare to get out to the sixth ring. The Great Market was divided into quarters, one for food, one for soft crafts, one for hard crafts, and one for stone, all sprawling around a giant statue of the dwarven creator Mahal. He had spent an inordinate amount of time here in the early days of his marriage, when he was decorating the Royal Chambers to his tastes and giving gifts to friends. As he had aged, though, it was more and more effort to get all the way down here. Thorin hated for him to come out among the general public, so there was that to deal with as well; Bilbo had never managed to break him of the conviction that someone was going to try to murder his hobbit as soon as they had him in a public place, no matter how ridiculous that notion was on the face of it. Shaking his head, he made it to the appropriate row and for once, luck was on his side - he spotted the merchant almost immediately. "Talshiz my friend, you made it back! How wonderful to see you!" he called out. The merchant stepped around his stall and came out into the street, long desert robes flowing around him in ripples of white and tan.

" _Sharhun_ ," the merchant replied, "it is joy to see you! A cool wind has brought you to me! I was hope that you come, and here you are." The merchant smiled broadly, white teeth flashing and dark curls oiled and arranged artfully around his almost obsidian countenance. The golden earrings the warden had commented on glowed at his ears, and his hands were outstretched in welcome. Bilbo had laughed at first at the man's strange Westron, oddly accented and imperfect, but he later learned that Talshiz spoke at least six languages at least as fluently as he did Westron, with a basic familiarity with three more; after that the hobbit's amusement gave way to envy. "Come, come, sit with me, so good friend should not be forced to stand in street like servant." He bustled Bilbo into the stall and gave him his own seat with a flourish, clearly making Vurn uncomfortable because of the distance he was forced to keep. Bilbo arranged his cane beside his chair for ease of access and smiled up at the tall Khandhari.

"Thank you, really, you're too kind. Vurn, if you would be so good, stand over by the entrance to the stall area, that way you can block anyone trying to come back here, there's a good fellow. I'm perfectly safe." Talshiz beamed at this endorsement, and Vurn grudgingly stepped over to the indicated spot, eyeing the merchant with instinctive distrust. Bilbo was delighted the young dwarf didn't argue out of an overdeveloped sense of duty. He needed him out of earshot. In a loud voice he said "So Talshiz, show me what you have. Tell me, how are the spices this year?" Talshiz seated himself on the floor beside the chair, putting their heads at roughly the same level. His smile vanished as though erased when he heard the phrase.

"Things are bad in the south, _sharhun_ ," came his murmured response. "I have much trouble coming here. Many of my friend merchant, they not come. Strange things happening all over the south lands. Messengers come on black horses to this chief, that chief, this king, that king, nobody knows their home city nor how they arrived. They say great king is returning, but I do not think they mean king in White City. These messengers very strange, they wear all black, though they are not priests. They come to all places in south; Near and Far Harad, Khand, Umbar, even into jungles of Tukku. Very, very strange. All come at sunset, time of witches; they stay the night, they talk-talk the whole night," an expressive hand mimicked talking, ruby ring flashing, "then _foh!_ , they leave before dawn. Business is bad, and caravans face many trouble on roads. With the _puruk_ (Bilbo knew from past conversations this meant dwarves), I am safe; even strong bandits see so many axes and know that they themself could be tree, yes?" A broad grin lit the merchant's face. "Others on the road say large things fly overhead time to time, like dragons, high above, but never come down. This I do not see. But I tell you, _sharhun_ , I think this will be last trip for some time." Jet-black eyes glittered in worry.

"That is ill news," Bilbo said, grimacing. "These messengers, what do they look like? What do they want? Do they have tokens or devices to show their allegiance?"

Talshiz shook his head, then half-grinned, seeming proud that he remembered that this meant no here in the north. "Few people see these men. They appear at dusk but they not dirty like long distance riders, and nobody see them on road. All on black horse, but horse not tired or dusty either. Never other color, though black horse is rare in south. Nobody say what they want, but I tell you this, _sharhun_... everywhere I see soldiers, everywhere ready for war. These messengers wear only black, no faces to see, though it may be when with king, they take down hood, I don't know. But they come, they talk to king, and next day king prepares for war. Over and over I see it, big kings of cities and little chiefs of tribes alike. One who guard a king say they see symbol on messenger's bag, symbol of big eye, all in red. This sign I do not know." Keen eyes examined the hobbit, and Bilbo knew that the merchant wanted to see if this meant anything to him. Unfortunately, it did not. For what was doubtless the millionth time in his life, he wished Gandalf were here to help him sort out this tangle. He sighed out a heavy breath.

"A big red eye... well, that's something, though I don't know this sign either, which is itself a bit odd. I thought I knew the signs of the large noble houses from Umbar to the ice in the north, and that's none of them. News for news, I suppose... here in the mountain, business is good; you see yourself, we are strong and well. Dale is strong also, and growing stronger by the year. The elves to the south flourish in their forests... it should be a good time. And yet. We hear rumors that orcs and goblins have made the whole Misty Mountains into an armed camp. Strangely shaped men came here claiming to be merchants under the mark of the White Hand, another unknown sign; they turned out to be spies, and won't be going home. Another similar group came to Dale, likewise wearing the White Hand, and they too were spies." Bilbo's sharp look was met with a vicious grin from Talshiz; they understood each other perfectly. "But this is another sign I do not know, and another mystery. Our friends to the east send word of odd things in the woods, wargs and worse; our clans to the west report trouble on the roads everywhere. Something is stirring, and I don't know what." Bilbo didn't know who in the south bought his news, but he was sure at least one someone did; he was happy to send word in exchange for information in turn. He liked Talshiz quite a bit, and the human had proven a reliable source of news and information; nevertheless, he was always careful not to tell anything too sensitive, because he knew it would probably be spread around all of Harad within a month or so. With the dwarves of Erebor being as cautious about outsiders as they were, there was no chance the giant human would be able to sneak anywhere in the mountain, so that made him the perfect resource as far as Bilbo was concerned.

"Strange shape, you say? How do you mean?" Talshiz looked curious and faintly disturbed.

"They looked... well, no offense to you my friend, but the appearance of men is not my area of study. They may have been perfectly normal representatives of a kind of men I don't know, but they looked almost orcish. Is there such a thing as a man-orc? They had slanting, squinting eyes like mountain orcs, jagged teeth, and their bodies seemed too long for their legs, somehow. They spoke well enough, though, just a bit roughly like they were from rustic parts, not growly like orcs." Talshiz was definitely upset by this. "They were very cagey about where they were from, but full of promises of riches and such. Do you...?"

"I have seen these beast-men," he cried, almost too loudly, and Bilbo fought the urge to shush him. "They are _mashish nil-ugur_ , some sorcerer's get. No good comes of this, no good, _sharhun_. You say you killed them?" Bilbo had said no such thing, but after an awkward moment he finally nodded. Talshiz nodded emphatically as well. "Good! Good. This is only way. Such things cannot be allowed to live, they are worse than _hurun_ , the flesh-maggot, that breed more and more of itself in animal until whole animal dies. Such things are forbidden. They have no soul like men, though they walk and speak." The hobbit was confounded. He had known this man for twenty years, more or less, from when he was a young merchant just starting out until now. He had spoken with him for news for much of that time, and this was the first time he had ever seen a strong emotional reaction like this from the Khandhari. The merchant was muttering to himself, staring down at the floor. "White Hand, sign of White Hand... this sign I do not know, I have not seen. Red Eye, White Hand... what next? Green Foot?" Bilbo wanted to laugh, but in the face of such upset it seemed rude. Talshiz continued, "This is all I know, _sharhun_ , and your guard is impatient. As I say, though... this is last trip. Umbar prepares great ships; Tukku sends forces of _mumakil_ from the Deep Green; Pirion and Gul-Shudur and all the cities of north Harad have armies like ants. Even Khand seems not safe. When I go home, I take wife, children, and we go to safe place. Bad times coming, _sharhun_. Tell king here, bad times coming." And with that, he stood. "You are good friend in truth, not just in business, _sharhun_. I pray you will be well and safe. This place is strong place; you have hard stone, deep halls, mighty gates. Very hard for enemy to take this place with army, so be careful who you let in the gate. Even strong fortress can fall to treason, yes? If you fight _ugur_ , sorcerer, you have bad enemy indeed."

"I pray you will be safe as well, Talshiz. You have been a good friend to me and to Erebor." He passed over a clinking pouch from inside his coat, thought a moment, then took a token from the same pocket and passed it to the Khandhari merchant. He was grateful for the intuition that had him bring it, and at the same time cursed the need for such things. It tingled in his grasp, and shimmered to his Deep Sight with the almost-light of magic, though weak as such things went. "I will give you this as well. It will be no use in most places of men, and I'm sorry for that. But here in the mountain, or Dale, or in any kingdom of Durin's folk, it will show that you are a friend of ours. If you and your family are in danger, and if you can, go to the dwarves... what do you call them, _puruk_? Go to them and show them this sign, and you and your family will be given shelter and asylum in their halls until the danger is past. Even the clans we are not close to there will honor this, as we would for them." The merchant examined the stone disk, engraved with the crown of seven stars and anvil and hammer of Durin ringed about with runes. He nodded grimly and tucked it into some hidden pocket in his robes, then grinned.

"When we meet again, I bring this back to you. You are indeed true friend. Here, I give you this." He passed over a box and when Bilbo opened the lid, the smell of cinnamon almost knocked him over. "Is best bark, still curled you see? Grind little-little when you need, this is very strong, but as bark it stay fresh longer." The hobbit reached out and pressed the merchant's hand, and then smiled sadly.

"I hope all stays well with you, my friend, in your journey and in your home alike. May Yavanna and Aule watch over you, your wife, and your children. Thank you for this," he lifted the box, "and for your news as well, dire though it is. An unseen enemy cannot be fought. May we meet again in better times." Vurn moved closer as stepped out into the street.

"In better times, may the gods will it so," Talshiz repeated, and bowed deeply in an elegant fashion, then went back into his stall and Bilbo turned towards the long walk back to the noble quarters, head already sorting the information he had been given. Vurn walked along beside him but Bilbo hardly noticed, turning over and over in his mind the image of a white hand and a red eye. He didn't know what was going on, but he knew he didn't like how this was shaping up at all. As he left the market, the hobbit shivered, remembering his first trip here with Ori and the death of the old king. Now why am I thinking of that, he wondered. Disturbed even more deeply, he made his way to the ramps leading up out of the market. 

=

As Bilbo passed through the halls near the Miner's Guildhall, he realized that he had acquired a companion. Glancing over, the star-shaped hair of Chamberlain Ori's older brother made Nori unmistakable, as did the angular smile being directed at the hobbit. Vurn cursed, clearly taken unawares, but at Bilbo's signal he dropped back a bit (though his grumbling was still clearly audible). "Highness," came Nori's sardonic voice, "perhaps a little more attention would be helpful in a bodyguard, if you are going to walk in such a distracted state." Bilbo gave him a sharp look.

"If my bodyguard could see you coming, you'd probably have him poisoned... assuming you didn't immediately commit suicide at the thought of losing your touch." Nori's sharp grin told Bilbo he'd scored a hit with that remark. "Good to see you, and even better now I don't need to send for you. We have things to discuss." Bilbo looked around, but nobody seemed to pay any mind. Still, he thought sourly, you never knew in Erebor. You'd do something you would swear nobody had seen, and word was all over the mountain in an hour; yet at the same time, the most blatant actions could somehow go unremarked. How Nori did as much as he did and never seemed to come to public attention as Thorin's spymaster was a testimony to his tradecraft.

"Ah," came the response. "Spice trade a little cutthroat, I take it?" Bilbo's snort of laughter drew a glance from a few passersby, but they moved along at the fastest pace Bilbo could manage to the noble quarter. Despite intense trying in the early years, Bilbo never was able to master Nar's ability to move through the mountain according to the quickest path, and each time he made this trip he cursed that fact all over again. Fifty years should have smoothed the edges from that stone, one would think, but now that movement was getting increasingly more painful, it was even more annoying to have to spend longer moving about the halls. He and Nori made small talk until they had finally reached the noble quarters, but when the door was shut behind them in the Consort's Chambers and the servant had been sent for tea, Bilbo collapsed into his favorite chair with a deep sigh of relief. The pain in his chest was stronger now, and he rubbed at it, the pressure seeming to make it feel better, and it faded as he sat. Nori took a cup of tea and then took the seat facing him and quirked a brow. "So it was bad, I take it?"

"It's worse than we feared," Bilbo said bluntly. "Talshiz reported that there is nothing but war and preparations for war across the south. Dark riders with no faces go out under the mark of a Red Eye, rounding up troops like a man gathering cherries from an orchard. Umbar is arming, an unknown number of _mumakil_ are coming from the jungles of Tukku, and rumors of dark creatures are everywhere in the south. I didn't tell him the half of what we know, but I did brag about how strong we were, and Dale as well. He can take that news back to whomever, and much joy may they have of it. I gave him one of the tokens of Erebor, in case he needs safety, told him to go to the Stiffbeards or Ironfists if he and his family need a safe haven." Nori's eyebrows went up at this, but he nodded. Might as well, what's done was done, the hobbit thought. Bilbo sipped his tea, suddenly swept by a wave of exhaustion. "Nori, what are we going to do? I'm too old for this. Even ten years ago, I could..." Bilbo's speech was interrupted by the spymaster.

"We will do the best we can," was all the spymaster said, "same as we always do. Problems don't come when we want them, else we'd never have a problem at all. Did he know the White Hand?" Nori looked disgusted, as he usually did when Bilbo started talking about being old. Dwarves didn't understand how hobbits aged, so they just assumed it must all be because the hobbits didn't know themselves and Bilbo must be exaggerating how old he felt. It was a bit infuriating, like most dwarven oddnesses, but Bilbo played along. He tried, at any rate, though he wasn't sure how much longer he could continue at this pace.

"No. He did know about the orcish looking men, though... he said they were produced by a sorcerer, though of course he didn't know how. It was a bit terrifying, the way he went on about them; I don't think I've ever seen him so upset. He also warned us about treason and treachery, saying if we were facing a sorcerer to mind who we let in the gates. It was frankly disturbing." Nori was nodding before the old hobbit ever finished his sentence.

"That's good to know about the orc-men, and he's not wrong about treachery. Yes, magic is always a danger, though it's not as common as the tale-tellers want us to believe... but why I'm telling you this, with your Deep Sight, is a mystery. You know this already." Nori looked down, mind clearly running ahead behind those quick eyes. "I will have a quiet word with Bard's lad Fellen, perhaps we and Dale should keep a close eye on who comes through the gates. If any of those orc-men come through, we should know about it. Be quite a bit easier for them to sneak into a city of men than try to creep through Erebor. A word with the Firebeards might help as well, they've a few with the Deep Sight that might not mind a stint on the gates at market day, see if anyone brings in something a bit more dangerous than dodgy cabbage." Bilbo laughed at the idea of Bard's dour, middle-aged spymaster being called a 'lad', but he himself remembered when the sour-looking man was just a boy as well. The second part of the sentence caught up with him after a moment, and he stared in shock.

"Do you really think that's going on?" Bilbo spluttered.

"Now? Probably not, but who knows. Once whoever sent those spies realizes they aren't coming back? Maybe." Nori smiled wolfishly. "Wouldn't be the first time I've prepared for an attack that never came, if it turns out to be nothing, but also wouldn't be the first time I've prepared for an attack and caught my opponent on the hop, not expecting me to be watching. Either way, it's good for a laugh." The spymaster took his leave after trading barbs with Bilbo for a few more minutes, but after he left, the hobbit sat with his feet outstretched towards the fire. Good for a laugh, he thought. Indeed. I just wish I felt more like laughing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner with Thorin, a reminder of just how argumentative dwarves are, and a visit with the wandering wizard Tharkun.

Bilbo woke abruptly, starting awake, but even as his heart lurched he recognized the strong hand on his shoulder. "Thorin," he mumbled, "you startled me." He blinked owlishly up at the king, but couldn't help smiling.

The king smiled back down at him, a tenderness on his face that Bilbo knew the rest of the world was never permitted to see. Time had taken almost all the black from his hair, and his beard was all white now, but at almost two hundred fifty, he still looked strong and powerful. Curiously, as Thorin had aged, the color had leached from all of him; Bilbo was told it was a family trait of the line of Durin. his skin had paled, his hair was shining white, and his eyes had gone from being the dark azure blue of sapphires to the pale sky blue color of the bluets that used to bloom in Bilbo's yard in the Shire. Thorin's eyes had always been one of the hobbit's favorite things about his husband, but now they brought back memories as well. He thought they were the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen. Then again, he always had. "Sorry, _azyungel_ ," Thorin said, eyes shining warmly, "You looked so peaceful I hated to wake you, but our dinner is ready."

"Oh," Bilbo said fuzzily, "are we dining here tonight? Just us? That's a pleasant change." He shook his head, trying to clear out the fog of sleep. One of the things he hated the most about being old was how difficult it was to wake up. When he was young, even middle-aged, he had awoken in the morning and his mind was sharp from the moment his eyes opened. Somewhere around eighty, though, he might as well still be asleep for the first twenty or thirty minutes after waking, and he detested it. He had also noticed that when he was tired, his mind was hardly clear, not like it was first thing in the morning. Thorin reached out and helped him stand, and Bilbo leaned over and gave the king a peck on the cheek in thanks. He picked up his cane from where it was resting and they moved towards the table. As they went, he asked "How were Igli and the other Stiffbeards? Still a bottomless pit for iron?"

"Aye," Thorin grinned, "I wish I knew what they did with it all. Their armor is good steel, so they clearly know how to smelt, but it's a mystery to me why anyone would settle in a place with so little iron. Copper and silver and gold are nice, but they're toys; iron is the dwarf's..."

"Servant, yes," Bilbo completed the commonplace saying for his husband, grinning at him as he did so. As they sat, he remembered his talk with Nori. "Thorin, things are bad in the south. I know you hate the diplomacy and intrigue business, but this sounds worrisome. There's a war brewing in the south somewhere, but nobody knows where. Masked riders are going around gathering up soldiers under the banner of the Red Eye, which isn't a sign Nori or I know. Strangely enough, the White Hand was unknown in the south, so I fear it's a more local threat..." Thorin's glare had intensified as his husband spoke, and at that point he interrupted.

"You know I hate you meddling in that sort of thing. It's no sort of work for honest dwa... hobbits. Certainly not for my husband," he said grumpily. "You should let Nori do his job, and not get involved in it." Thorin stabbed his fork into a piece of pork as though it had personally offended him, and bit into it as though he were taking revenge. Bilbo prayed for strength. They'd been having some flavor of this same argument for over thirty years now; Yavanna save him from the intractable stubbornness of dwarves! He ladled up some more of the sliced potatoes in cream sauce for himself and, after an impatient gesture for Thorin's plate, for his husband as well.

"Thorin, we aren't having this conversation again, certainly not tonight. Listen to me; this is important. War is coming in the south; we don't know if it will affect us here. We have to prepare, but we need to do it quietly. No need to panic everyone over something that may not reach us. Thranduil's forest is enormous, and there are plenty of threats even without his armies between us and the deep south. We both know he has sluices to render the marshes impassable almost to the feet of the Iron Hills if he wishes. Yet and still, if there's a major war near Gondor or Rohan, even as far south as Belfelas or Umbar, others may feel like it's time to settle scores. I'd hate to see the orcs of the Misty Mountains come pouring across to visit us and have us unprepared to meet them." Thorin's scowl was contemplative now, but Bilbo still wasn't sure the argument had been completely averted. "Have Igli or any of the others from Khand mentioned anything about war?"

"No," Thorin said slowly, clearly thinking about it, "not as such. They did ask about whether we would be willing to sell the service of our smiths, though, and they wanted weapons. That struck me as a bit unusual, for one kingdom to buy weapons from another; traditionally we each make our own. But if they were hiring troops..." he stopped and stared down at the table, brows lowered.

Bilbo grimaced. "If they were arming mercenaries, they would give them whatever weapons they could get, and it might be easier to buy them from a place where iron and steel are cheap, not dear." The hobbit could finally feel his mental gears moving again after his nap. "Which, in turn, I might add, supports my warning about a war coming. I have a bad feeling about this, Thorin. You know I hate making vague statements like that, but it's true. We have creatures show up at our gate which I'm told are produced by sorcery, mysterious messengers are gathering an army of enormous size, the Misty Mountains and ruins of Angmar are once again crawling with orcs and trolls... my gut tells me that we are in for some very difficult times indeed. We never did find out what happened fifty years ago to make them all suddenly quiet down again, remember. Where they went, why they appeared in the first place... all these things are still a mystery, I'll remind you." It was Thorin's turn to roll his eyes. Bilbo had what the king referred to as 'a stone in his boot' about this issue; when they had passed through the area on the quest for the crown so long ago, Gandalf and others had warned (and they themselves had seen!) that the orcs and wargs were massing for an assault. Nobody knew where the hammer would fall, but all braced for the impact. Then... nothing. After a few minor skirmishes with Thranduil's folk like the battlefield Bilbo and Thorin encountered on their first journey, the orcs melted away from view like snow from a sunny slope, and peace returned. Gandalf insisted it was because some evil necromancer had been driven out of Dol Guldur in Mirkwood, but that made no sense to Bilbo (nor Thorin). How would orcs in Angmar or the goblins of the Misty Mountains have any idea of, or relevance to, some sorcerer half a world away? Despite his faith in the wizard's abilities, Bilbo thought, some of the things he said beggared credulity. The nagging sense of missing something had stuck with the hobbit for fifty years, and it often cropped up again at any trace of unrest.

"Yes, yes, I know, it's bothered you for ages." Bilbo knew Thorin was trying not to sound dismissive, so he contented himself with a sharp look at his husband rather than the comments that he might have made otherwise. Thorin passed him a portion of the blackberry cobbler Bombur had prepared and ladled a serving of clove sauce over it, and the hobbit consciously put down his annoyance. It wasn't possible to be but so upset with someone feeding you berries and cloves, he thought, and grinned inside. All thoughts of dessert fled with Thorin's next sentence. "Tharkun sent a message; he will be arriving to the mountain within a week. It seems he wishes to speak with us both on some matter or other. The Ravenmaster brought the note as I left the Council hall." Gandalf? Bilbo could count on the fingers of one hand the number of visits they had received in fifty years; the last time he had seen the wizard in person was almost ten years ago when he was escorting Bilbo's nephew for a visit.

"Gandalf? It's almost winter, Thorin! Is Frodo well? Did he say? Thorin, did..." Thorin smiled and shook his head.

"Tharkun didn't mention your nephew, and there didn't seem any sense of doom or urgency about the message. Don't worry, _azyungel_ , I'm sure he's fine. Didn't you get a letter from him just last week?" Thorin's eyes twinkled in the light. Bilbo nodded reluctantly, still concerned that something might be wrong with the only relative he cared the least bit about in the Shire. Bilbo's abrupt departure had caused a minor scandal, but the other hobbits were used to his trips to historic sites and him wandering off to poke about in old North Kingdom ruins around and about. The assumption had been made that he couldn't have gone far, and that 'Mad Baggins' would be back soon; none of the stolid, unimaginative hobbits of the surrounding communities could have conceived of just how far Bilbo was to go, or the adventures and dangers he was to face after his departure. After Bilbo's marriage and coronation, he sent his instructions about the disposition of his property to his cousin Drogo and his wife, causing eyebrows to be raised from Bywater to Tuckborough. Unfortunately, that was only the beginning; when word ultimately trickled back to Hobbiton about how (and with whom) Bilbo had finally settled down, the scandal was astonishing and absolute. He didn't doubt that fifty years later, they were still talking about it. The letter Bilbo received from his cousin Drogo made the rest of the family's opinion of the matter quite clear, so clear that it took ten closely-written pages of shock, outrage and veiled abuse to communicate. Sighing, Bilbo assumed that was to be his last communication with his family, or indeed, anyone in the Shire. When Gandalf showed up over thirty years later with a friendly, open young hobbit in tow who wanted to meet "his long-lost uncle", Bilbo's heart was lost immediately. It turned out that Drogo and his wife Primula had died unexpectedly, leaving Bag End and all their possessions to their son. Frodo in turn didn't give a rotten fig for public opinion, and did as he liked; Bilbo was in awe of the nerve of his nephew, nothing he would have had at that age. Perhaps fortunately for Frodo, along with a large amount of property he had inherited what was known colloquially in the Shire as 'the Brandybuck mouth' from his mother Primula; anyone attempting to find fault with him to his face left shortly thereafter with their metaphorical hair on fire from his insults and razor wit. After the visit, Bilbo corresponded voluminously with his nephew, and having contacts in the Shire to relay all the news (or what passed for it) filled a void that the old hobbit hadn't even known was there. Realizing that thoughts of Frodo had him smiling like an old fool as Thorin was still talking, Bilbo forced himself to pay attention. The king raised an eyebrow and went on. "As many ravens as are flying back and forth to the Shire, I think you'd know the instant anything unusual went on; you two write more in a year than I've written to anyone in my whole life."

"It's hardly my fault that you weren't raised to maintain proper correspondence," Bilbo began stuffily, but then took a mouthful of cobbler and lost his train of thought. Heaven! He really must congratulate Bombur on this, it was superb. Thorin's snicker broke his moment of reverie, and he swatted lightly at his husband. "Hobbits like to stay in touch, you monster! I shan't be mocked at my age, Thorin Oakenshield!" He had to giggle at his own antics, and the king was on the verge of a proper belly laugh judging by his expression.

"Hobbits like to gossip, more like. I should dismiss Nori and hire Frodo, between the two of you I'd know everything about everything from Umbar to the ice." Bilbo scoffed loudly and poked Thorin with a knobby finger.

"One more comment like that, and you'll be in trouble." Thorin's brows shot up, then back down and he grinned unrepentantly.

"Trouble, eh? And what would my punishment be?" Thorin's eyes were soft as Bilbo pulled a face, but inside the hobbit sighed as he often did at times like this. Even twenty years ago, a flirtatious comment like that would only have one possible result. At ninety eight, though... the mind was willing, but the body was lucky to wake up and get dressed, let alone anything more strenuous. As he did more and more, he retreated into fussiness while hating himself for becoming the old codger he never wanted to be. He supposed he was lucky to still be alive at this age, but he did miss the touch of Thorin's hands. The couple still did what they could occasionally, given the limitations of Bilbo's increasingly frail body, but the hobbit knew he was far too tired tonight for anything to result other than frustration and self-loathing (though he would never share that part with Thorin, of course).

"Nothing enjoyable, I assure you," he grumbled, then took the plates and piled them up for the servants to gather. Thorin sighed and the moment faded. Despite his intentions not to, Bilbo took Thorin's hand and traced the edges of the sturdy, callused fingers with his own. "Thorin, I wish..."

"It's fine, _azyungel_ ," Thorin said, kissing him tenderly on the forehead. Bilbo was unsurprised that the king knew what was on his husband's mind; they had more than their share of the telepathy old married couples seem to develop. "We've talked about it. You are still as beautiful to me as you ever were, and I am the luckiest dwarf alive to have met my One and spent this much time with him. I would rather spend a minute with you than a lifetime with anyone else, so stop fretting." Bilbo remembered the feeling of their joining at the ringing of the bell, and his eyes tingled with unshed tears. No matter how dark his thoughts became, no matter how bitterly they disagreed or how angry they were with each other, after that moment at their wedding he never doubted Thorin's feelings for a second.

"Thorin," he began, then stopped, unsure what to say or how to say it. He sat and looked at his husband, and the king looked back at him, pale blue eyes shining in the light and showing nothing but love and fondness. This was a side of Thorin that nobody else ever saw, and even after fifty years Bilbo still felt privileged to see it. Green Lady, he loved this dwarf so much! Finally he just said "Thank you," and curled up next to Thorin on the couch near the fire. A soft kiss was the only response, and there they stayed until it was time for bed.

= 

The next two days came and went in a flurry of court events, first Thorin's open court day to hear public grievances and then what should have been a light day, sadly derailed by the wrangling between High Councilor Kuguz of the Miners and a dwarf named Buruk who was the leader of the Jeweler's Guild. Relations were already politically strained, since Buruk was deputy to Tugur Craft-Lord, who Kuguz didn't trust. Things were further complicated by the fact that the two of them just seemed to find each other personally intolerable, and if one said yes, the other said no, out of pure spite if nothing else. The current iteration of their dispute was an argument over a promised delivery of emeralds and beryls, but it was just the latest in a long-running and interminable turf war that had been going on for nearly twenty years. At this precise moment, the hobbit hated them both passionately. Bilbo sat in the consort's throne beside Thorin, chin propped on one hand and his mithril coronet pressing down his wispy white curls, listening to the two dwarves circle each other verbally. Thorin was looking at the two of them like he was ready to pick up the Axe of Dain and murder them both, but they were too caught up in their argument to notice. Ori was taking notes on the argument as Chamberlain, but his grim mouth and sidelong looks at the pair made his opinion clear.

"Any fool could see that at least half of those stones were flawed, some with..." Buruk shouted.

"The contract stipulated a time that couldn't be..." Kuguz ranted back, both trying to make themselves heard over the other. It had been going on like this for two hours, and Bilbo was finally ready to give up hope that Thorin was going to put a stop to it any time soon.

Bilbo raised his hand, and the two stopped talking immediately. Decades of experience with the verbal flaying an angry Bilbo could deliver had taught even the most stubborn of dwarves that particular lesson, so he spoke into a quiet room (not counting Thorin's half-heard chuckle). "So let me see if I understand the nature of the dispute. Please excuse me if I'm confused, it all seems so complicated," Bilbo began, and the two dwarves glared at each other. "Buruk, you say that the quality of the stones you received was less than expected?" Buruk nodded self-importantly. "Kuguz, you say that your contract was for too short of a time period?" Kuguz agreed, opening his mouth to add further information but at Bilbo's expression, nodded meekly and closed his mouth again. "Tell me, was the quality of the stones specified in the contract that was negotiated between Mining and Crafts?"

"Well, no, but as a matter of long-standing..." Buruk began, and Bilbo cut him off.

"Thank you. So I understand the actual answer to be 'no'. Now... Kuguz, were you or were you not involved in the negotiation of the contract in question? You are, after all, Lord of Mining." Kuguz' face reddened.

"Yeesss...." he dragged out, "I signed it, but I can't review every piece of paperwork, you understand, and it was reviewed and recommended by..." Bilbo cut him off as well.

"But you signed it?" A miserable nod was the response. "Right, then. I realize that I'm just a simple hobbit, and perhaps my thinking on these matters isn't sufficiently complex or elevated enough to understand all the various issues at play," he began, and relished the loud snort from both Ori and Thorin. The two dwarves in front of him seemed to belatedly recognize the trouble they were in. 'Simple hobbit' was a phrase that fell on the High Council like a headsman's axe often enough that both of these dwarves knew when it was deployed, they were already in very dangerous territory. "But given that the formal terms of this contract were met by both parties, I don't see that either of you have a complaint to make to the king or anyone else. It seems that you've wasted two hours of our time arguing with each other just to hear your own voices, with a side benefit of hoping to blame your own shortcomings on someone else. I would recommend that you both go away and ask for a remedial class from your respective Scribes on what a bloody contract is and how to write one," and with a pointed glance at Kuguz he went on, "or at least a reminder not to sign anything you don't actually read. Thorin, I don't see that either of them have a valid complaint, though you are, of course, the king."

"The Consort's judgment stands. I, Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, of the Line of Durin say this. Let it be recorded." Thorin rushed through the formula and stood, formally indicating that the court session was at an end.

"It is heard and written," Ori said just as quickly, and everyone else leaped up as well. Buruk and Kuguz shot each other glances of deep loathing, obviously blaming each other for their dressing down, and stomped off in opposite directions. Bilbo had struggled to get out of his throne; he had been sitting for so long his hips were aching, and his head was pounding from all the shouting (and utter nonsense, he thought irritably). A dwarf burst through the door. Bilbo worried that it was Kuguz or Buruk again and braced himself to really tell someone off, but he barely recognized the young dwarf as the runner from the front gate. The messenger panted but bowed to Thorin immediately.

"Beggin' your pardon, Majesty, but Tharkun the wizard has arrived. He's at the gate now, what should I...?" Before he could even finish his sentence, Bilbo interrupted.

"Send him up of course!" The hobbit shouted irritably, hating how querulous his voice sounded. "Have one of the Royal guards escort him up, we'll meet with him in my chambers." Thorin closed his mouth, chagrined, and glanced over at Bilbo. Ori was suddenly fascinated with the papers he was sorting. He realized belatedly that he had just spoken for the king. For the thousandth time that week, Bilbo found himself cursing his age. When he was rested, his mind was fine, but when he was tired... Grimacing and trying to make it look like a smile, he continued "If the king agrees, of course." Thorin's scowl covered his soft snort of amusement, but Bilbo heard it and was relieved. At the king's nod the youth turned and dashed off to find a guard without another word. Bilbo put his head on Thorin's shoulder in exhaustion. "I'm so sorry," he said, "those two idiots earlier..."

" _Azyungel_ ," Thorin said, "you're tired, think no more about it." Thorin and Ori were both looking at him with concern, and Bilbo realized how he must look. His chest gave another twinge and he ignored it. Stepping back and squaring his shoulders, he firmed his mouth and gestured to the door. Thorin gave him another worried look, but set his hand on Bilbo's shoulder. Bilbo shrugged it off irritably and stumped along with his cane. By the time they got back to the Consort's Chambers, the hobbit was clearly struggling to stay awake. Thorin gave him a worried glance that made the hobbit feel both silly to be in such a state over essentially nothing and aggravated at the same time. "My heart, take a short rest. You have at least an hour before Tharkun can make it all the way up here, and it may be a long night, if he comes bearing much news." And I'm being that grumpy old man I swore I'd never become, Bilbo thought with deep disgust.

"I'm fine! I'm..." Bilbo's knee twinged and he grimaced. "You're right of course." He sighed. "I'm sorry to be in such a strop over nothing, Thorin. It's just all..." Thorin put his hands on Bilbo's shoulders and kissed him gently.

"You're exhausted, _ghivashel_. I can tell. Go rest. I will wait here." Bilbo nodded and went into his bedroom, curling up on top of the embroidered coverlet. Maybe he could just rest his eyes for a bit and get back his focus...

=

The hobbit came to consciousness with a start. Bilbo knew he had been asleep but wasn't sure for how long. As he wondered, the sound of voices from the other room made it clear that he had slept past Gandalf's arrival and he cursed under his breath as he struggled upright. Now that he was awake, the strong pulse of the wizard's magic told Bilbo more clearly than his ears who was in the other room. While he fought with the pains in his hips which seemed to have seized up during his nap, he heard part of the conversation in progress between Thorin and Gandalf. He rather wished he hadn't. Further proof, Bilbo thought, that my mother was right: eavesdroppers hear nothing good of themselves.

"He has aged so much in the past five years," Thorin's deep voice sounded diffident to a casual ear, but the concern pulsed under his words clearly enough that Bilbo could hear it.

Yes," Gandalf sighed, "I'm sure he has. That is the way of it, I'm afraid. Thorin, I don't think you realize," Gandalf said in a gentle voice, "Bilbo is ninety eight years old. He's an amazing hobbit, truly, but it's quite rare for Shirefolk to live past ninety, and that is especially true when they live a life as strenuous as Bilbo must here in the mountain. That he stayed as young-seeming as he did as long as he did was doubtless your doing." There was a pause, and Bilbo would have bet his pocket money that Gandalf was smoking his pipe. "Hobbits are curious creatures. I'm sure you've noticed." The sound of Thorin's muffled laughter made Bilbo smile despite his aching hips; if he lived another thousand years he would never get tired of that laugh. "They wear their hearts on their sleeves, and on their faces. Outwardly they seem as soft as butter, but inside they are as hard and enduring as the hearts of the mountains themselves. Hobbits stay young-seeming far longer than men, then age quickly at the end." Another lull in the conversation and Bilbo leaned against the bed. It was hardly like he didn't know that, but it was still shocking to hear it said so bluntly. He knew he was fading, but... Gandalf's voice resumed. "Make no mistake, Thorin... Bilbo was miserable in the Shire. If you had not come, he'd have long since died, if not from illness then from merely not caring enough to stay alive. A dark thing to say, but true. Love of you has kept him alive all this time, and that, great king, is a tremendous mark in your favor. Even so, all mortal lives must end, Thorin, in the fullness of time. If he is fading, then celebrate the years you had, and try not to cling. You will see each other again, I'm sure of it."

Thorin's rumbled response pulled at Bilbo's heart. "Tharkun, I know... believe me, I know. I would have died without him as well; I was practically dead before he found me, and he has saved my life a thousand times over since we met. I don't think I'm strong enough to lose him, though. The very thought of it carves me open. I..." Bilbo made a noisy entrance, stepping out into the room with a loud tap of his cane and giving them the chance to pretend they had been talking about something else. Gandalf's eyes twinkled merrily as he looked at the hobbit. The old bugger!, the hobbit thought in amazement. He doesn't look a day older than he ever has, and here's me with one whole leg in the grave!

"Bilbo Baggins, Consort Under the Mountain, as I live and breathe! Still a fashion plate, I see." Gandalf's expression was cheerful, but his gaze was probing, examining Bilbo closely. Fashion...? Bilbo realized belatedly he was still wearing his court clothes, though they were a bit rumpled from his brief sleep.

"Yes, Gandalf, and I think it most unfair that I should age so dreadfully and you yourself look quite the same as always. Perhaps I should have been a wizard." Bilbo stumped into the room, hips still twinging from his nap. He accepted a cup of tea gratefully from Thorin and sat as gracefully as he could on the couch next to his husband. "So what is this news that you bear, which brought you here so precipitously? It's nothing to do with Frodo, I hope." He gazed worriedly at the wizard, trying not to show just how much he fretted about his nephew (and probably failing miserably, he thought with an internal frown).

"As for being a wizard, you wouldn't like it, I assure you," Gandalf said with an arch look. "It's quite more trouble than it seems. Some centuries are nothing more than one crisis after another." He smiled with a sardonic expression, so that Bilbo and Thorin couldn't be sure if he was serious or not. "And as to the news... yes, actually, it does have to do with your nephew, I'm afraid." The wizard's face grew somber, and Bilbo felt a tightness in his chest. Without meaning to do so he sank back against Thorin, who wrapped an arm around the hobbit. "No, no, there's no need to fear, he's still quite well... it's just a rather complicated situation I'm afraid. Do you remember when we came here to visit?"

"Yes, of course I remember, I may be old but I'm not dotty, at least not yet," Bilbo said with exasperation, ignoring Thorin's barely-concealed look of surprise. Bilbo rubbed at his chest unconsciously. If only it didn't hurt so! "So what's wrong with Frodo? We write all the time, he might have said if there's a problem. He was fine when he was here, but that was over ten years ago!" Irritation was rising again, and Gandalf gave him a concerned look.

"Good heavens, Bilbo," the wizard said, "please be calm. As I said, Frodo is fine. But when we were coming here, we passed through the Misty Mountains and while we were there Frodo found something. Finding lost items of power seems to be a bit of a family trait, I fear," the wizard smiled, but the avuncular act was no longer effective at hiding his concern from Bilbo. Before the hobbit could ask, Gandalf continued. "I cannot tell you much about it; indeed, I would ask that neither of you breathe a word of what I am telling you to anyone, even your trusted advisors. Nevertheless, Frodo found something old, dark, and very powerful indeed, and it is my intention to accompany him on a journey to destroy it. While we are..."

"Destroy it?" Bilbo interrupted, almost shouting. "Gandalf, where are you taking my nephew? Is it dangerous? I can't..." his chest was hurting like fire now and he clutched at it, but he couldn't calm himself down for some reason. Gandalf's look of concern was clear. The wizard reached out his hand and Bilbo felt a wave of energy go through him, like a cool stream, and he felt a fist unclench inside his chest. Panting for breath, he felt Thorin's arm tighten around his shoulders. "Thank you, whatever you did, that was... thank you." Bilbo felt drained and old, suddenly.

"Bilbo, you must stay calm. Your heart cannot take much more upset, my friend. As to the journey ahead, yes, it may be dangerous, but believe it or not I am a very good companion to have in dangerous places. It is my hope that we will have others with us who will also be of use, though it will be a small party. We must go somewhere very dark indeed, but it is my hope and my strong presentiment that we can save the world from something which is rather more of a threat than the usual sort of things that men, and occasionally dwarves, have to face." The wizard gave Thorin an unreadable look. "I tell you only because you are Frodo's kinsman, and as well as kin you are his dearest relative. I know he is like a son to you, Bilbo, and to leave you unaware would be unnecessarily cruel. I will do everything in my power, which as you know is not inconsiderable, to save him from any misfortune."

"Gandalf..." Bilbo felt the magical calm still about him, holding his emotions in check, but his mind felt like a shattered crystal goblet, all jags and sharp edges. "I cannot stand the idea of my nephew going into danger. Why, he's only a boy! He's barely more than a tween, surely there's someone else who can fulfill this, this terrible mission you talk of! He's no warrior of Numenor or elf prince like Gil-Galad! Elf prince... yes! I know, get Glorfindel to do it! He destroyed a balrog, surely whatever this is would be more doable by him than by a hobbit who's barely more than a lad."

"Bilbo..." Gandalf suddenly looked older than Bilbo had ever seen him. He was always old-looking, but he seemed young, never tired or aching, but in this precise moment he looked ancient. "I would if I could, I pray you believe me. These things are ordained elsewhere, I fear, and I am but a servant. If it were in my power to take this burden from him, I would. Please know the truth in this." The hobbit just sat and breathed, trying to reconcile the magical calm around him with his internal terror and heartache. Thorin was like a stone at his side. It almost shocked Bilbo when he spoke.

"Tharkun, these are pretty words, but a servant of whom? Who decides how these things must be? And how is it that only you can know who is destined to do what act?" Thorin's natural suspicion surged to the fore, and Bilbo's heart went out to him. He clutched at the king's hand, trying to show his feelings somehow, and the calm pressure returned was a comfort in itself.

"Ah," Gandalf said, but nothing more for a moment. He seemed to be thinking, and puffed on the pipe which had appeared in his hand. Finally he spoke. "There is much I cannot say, and more I will not. Believe me or not as you wish, it will not change the outcome. To tell you more would only be to endanger you, and it grieves me to say that." In spite of himself, Bilbo believed that, even with the threat to Frodo and everything else in train. "There is one further thing I came to say, though, and I apologize for being the bearer of even more grim news. Darkness marches everywhere on the face of Arda, and the shadow is growing. This mountain is no more safe than elsewhere; you may yet face an army yourself, and one larger and more fell than even Erebor might be prepared to face. If riders come bearing the sign of the Red Eye, do not let them within the gates, if you value your home! Once they are in, it is hard indeed to drive them out again." Bilbo was shocked to hear his earlier warnings come out of Gandalf as well.

"The Red Eye! You are the second this week to speak of it," Bilbo said, deciding in the moment that sharing information with Gandalf might prove prudent. He noticed as well the wizard's sudden intent interest. "What is the Red Eye? What chief or lord calls that sign his own? We have not seen it here, but messengers bearing tokens of the Red Eye are said to be raising an army across the whole of the south and east of the world. Yet and still, I do not know that mark, nor the mark of the White Hand, which has already appeared here causing trouble." The wizard's brows drew down.

"The White Hand? I confess myself surprised by this, Bilbo. I do not know of this White Hand, though I assure you I will make it my business to find out. What this board most emphatically does not need at the moment is another player, so this is concerning. The Red Eye, however, is the mark of an ancient power, a dark power, one that was thought..." Bilbo racked his mind. Ancient power? What possible ancient, dark power could have survived... for some reason, he suddenly thought back to the his earlier mention of Gil-Galad, and blurted out his thoughts.

"Sauron!" Gandalf stopped speaking and sat with his mouth open. The wizard looked utterly flabbergasted, the first time the hobbit had ever seen him at a complete loss for words. Seeing Gandalf in such a state offered confirmation, but Bilbo had never wanted to be wrong more in his life. "But, Gandalf, it can't be! Isildur killed him! He cut off his fingers and took his ring and..." The wizard stood and held out his hand, and Bilbo felt his voice suddenly leave him.

"Stop," Gandalf said, shaking his head. "Enough, my dear hobbit. Some names are not safe to speak, and some subjects should not be dwelt upon, even in places as strong as this. Yes, your intuition is correct, though I would wish it had not been so quick on this subject, of all things. But yes. I fear that you have the right of it. The Old Enemy has returned, and the Red Eye is indeed his sign and token, in testimonial of the... current condition... in which he finds himself."

"But... how... what could Frodo possibly find that..." Bilbo's face blanched suddenly, appearing as white as his sparse curls. "Oh surely not. He couldn't have found... oh Gandalf." The grey wizard put one hand over his face and laughed in spite of himself.

"Bilbo Baggins! If at any time the Council of the Wise needs help deciphering a mystery, it seems we should come to you! Fifty years and more we have wondered what was coming, pondered it, sought omens, and here you seem to have riddled it all out from a few short sentences. I rejoice that I am not expected to gamble against you, and I would remind you of how irritated you once got with me when I couldn't explain how I knew things. I might ask you the same question now that you asked me then, if I were the sort to be petty. Elrond, Saruman and Galadriel together would be hard put to summon the answers as quickly as you seem to have done; I don't know whether to be amazed or appalled. Regardless, I remind you, this time with more vigor, that the things you know, or at least suspect, are secrets that some would kill any number of others to possess. Frodo's safety depends on your silence." Bilbo nodded solemnly. Thorin growled suddenly.

"I do not know what the two of you are speaking of, and given your dire warnings about it, that suits me well," said Thorin, giving them both a sidelong look, "but I would hear more of this army. What sort of army do you think we would face? What strength in numbers, and how armed? We can reconfigure our defenses if need be, set up all sorts of surprises for our enemy if you could just..." Bilbo felt the tension coiled in his husband, the passion of the children of Durin for protecting their people; it was his turn to wordlessly offer comfort.

"Peace, Thorin, peace, the army of the enemy is not in my pocket," Gandalf laughed, though Thorin clearly didn't see any reason to be amused. "It may not come at all. I speak only out of caution, not foreknowledge. But if you do face an army, it will be almost certainly men and orcs, possibly war trolls as well. Beyond that there may be other, darker threats, but..." Gandalf looked off to one side for a moment and Bilbo thought he would speak, but he finally shook his head. "I do not know. If there is worse, it is hidden from me, and indeed you may face nothing more than bad weather and a loss of trade for a time. I pray that fate will be so kind to you. Come what may, though, in the morning I must go to Rivendell. There I shall meet with Frodo and a council of others, and thence to Isengard to confer with the head of my order, Saruman the White. I hope that these warnings I bring you are unnecessary, and all may be resolved quickly, quietly, and above all else, secretly." Bilbo hoped so as well, but he had a sinking feeling that he once again knew the answer in advance.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A group departs the mountain for Rivendell, Erebor prepares for war, and a terrifying emissary appears. Horrible news is received from all directions.

Despite Gandalf's declared intention to depart the next day, Bilbo wheedled a few more days visit out of the wizard, days which passed in frantic activity. The warning of war was taken seriously by the Council, more so in light of Bilbo's news (though he was careful not to mention his sources, and the councilors knew from long experience that asking might not be wise). Messages went out in all directions, warning their allies of the intelligence they had received and asking for aid if needed, pledging it in turn if war came elsewhere. Gloin son of Groin, Chief Physician Oin's brother, one of the primary traders in the mountain and a solid partisan in Bilbo's camp, requested to be sent to the council with Gandalf, and for once there was little debate. Gloin was a distant cousin of Thorin's, though the Durin blood was so dilute he would never be considered for a throne; still, he would be a good representative of the Longbeards. The merchant went and took along his son Gimli. This caused a bit of trouble as both Oin and Gloin's wife Surda were opposed to the boy going with his father. Nevertheless, when the wizard left, he awas accompanied by the father and son pair, along with two highly skilled guards that Thorin sent 'to defend the honor of the mountain'. Gandalf seemed pleased. Bilbo supposed with the western roads the way they were these days two extra axes never went amiss. 

The day after Gandalf and the rest of the group left, Bilbo received a letter by raven from Frodo that made little reference to what was coming, but said simply that Frodo would be "traveling" for some time, and unavailable to correspond, but 'please don't worry, all is well'. Bilbo snorted. The letter went on to say that Frodo loved his uncle, prayed daily for his safety, and that he would write from wherever he happened to be if opportunity arose. The light hearted tone of the letter made a feeble attempt to seem as though this 'traveling' was just youthful highjinks, but Frodo's worry showed through clearly in several places in the text. If Bilbo hadn't been told by Gandalf what was really going on, that letter would have sent him mad; as it was, he shook his head, muttered 'Frodo my lad, you're appallingly bad at deception', and then curled up for a good cry. The thought of his nephew going into danger tore at his soul. Dis found him and sat without a word, holding him while he sobbed; it still amused him in less emotional times that she had aggravated him so much when he first arrived. He couldn't imagine life without her now. She and her two boys were the family he never thought to have again.

Gandalf's cryptic warning had been heeded; the fortification of the mountain began before he and his small group had passed the horizon. The Stiffbeard emissaries and caravan pulled out three days after the wizard departed, and Thorin closed the market to merchants from outside of Erebor. The excuse given was that the winter was anticipated to be bad, but rumors flew in the mountain. Old battle plans from previous centuries were dragged out and examined; Nar and the other stonekeepers walked the southern and western faces of the mountain searching out and shoring up all weaknesses. Walls were strengthened and, where needed or recommended, built anew. Great engines were drawn from storage and reassembled, designed to fling huge bolts, great stones and (in a few cases) barrels of flaming naphtha at enemies camped before the gates. Boulders were set out to block most approaches, turning the entrance to the mountain from a wide open plain into a funnel guiding enemies into a narrow area beneath the punishing fire of the catapults and trebuchets. Dale began fortifying as well, but they had neither the expertise nor the resources to turn their city into an impregnable citadel; the dwarves did. Bilbo argued with Thorin that teams of military engineers should be dispatched to help, and with much grumbling he did so, recognizing that if the region's main trade hub was destroyed it would harm the mountain as much as a defeat in the long term. Bilbo pushed himself relentlessly, tottering back to his rooms on the brink of exhaustion so often that Thorin considered having him arrested to force him to sleep. He seemed to age more each day and the sight of his thinning white curls bobbing along in the distance became a familiar sight in every part of the mountain. The clack of his walking stick was a comfort to the hard working and a source of terror to anyone being less than productive everywhere in Erebor.

One of the most surprising sources of support was Thranduil. Instead of the usual endless parade of veiled accusations and snippy missives, the king of Greenwood the Great responded quickly and with shocking straightforwardness (at least for an elf). Old documents of alliance were dusted off and re-ratified. Messengers raced tirelessly back and forth between the forest halls and the mountain. It was even implied (though never clearly stated) that Thranduil had sent someone to the Rivendell council as well - a state of affairs Bilbo found utterly shocking, given Thranduil's disdain for Elrond Peredhel and the Noldor in general. On the borders of the forest, clever shunts and sluices were opened and reconfigured, turning the marshy-but-passable terrain east of Greenwood between the forest and the Iron Hills territory into an impenetrable, treacherous fen. No army could think of coming that way, unless they wanted to swing so far to the east that Dain Ironfoot in the Iron Hills would see them clearly. Being seen would block them from Erebor, for as several of the Easterling tribes had discovered, an enemy seen by Dain was an enemy attacked by Dain. To come through the forest itself... well, Bilbo grinned to himself, best of luck with that fool's errand. Coming the length of the great forest, even the mightiest army would run afoul of something horrible before the first elf was aware of their presence. To go to the west of the forest was to pass through the Riddermark of Rohan, land of the fierce horse-warriors of the Rohirrim. Past the Riddermark that same army would be beneath the very nose of the wizard Saruman in Isengard and also pass along the borders of Lady Galadriel and the Noldor in Lorien. With their alliances and protections, the south and east were well-guarded; those roads were shut to any enemies. There was nothing to the north, save the Wyrmlands and the frozen heath; Bilbo saw no way that any enemy could come from that direction. To do so, they would have to circle Erebor undetected and march far out of their way. Even assuming they survived the lesser cold-drakes and other fell beasts that roamed the frozen wastes, the bulk of the mountain would be between any enemy and the gate. The only conceivable way for an army to come was down the old dwarf-road to the west, so scouts and ravens were sent to keep watch for anything out of the ordinary. The winter brought with it a watchful silence, like the calm before the storm.

Two weeks after Gandalf's departure, a rider appeared in the chill gloom after sunset at the gates demanding to be admitted to see the King Under the Mountain. Cloaked and hooded in jet black, the figure had loomed up out of the darkness with no sound of hooves or warning. The gate guard who notified the king was visibly disturbed, which was a message in itself; Bilbo knew that dwarf, and a less imaginative, more phlegmatic soul was not to be found in the mountain. Yet and still, even such a pillar of stoicism was bothered by the waiting figure at the gates. 

Bilbo accompanied Thorin with Ori, Balin and a company of guards as they passed down into the common areas and then to the market, huge statue of Mahal looming over the mostly shuttered and empty stalls where only six months before the wealth of four kingdoms had been displayed for sale. Thorin's heir Fili was left behind, though he and his brother Kili were warned that Thorin was on a dangerous errand at the gates. Of course they demanded to be brought along, but Thorin reminded them that his heir must be safe. In the past fifty years, they had grown out of most of their wildness and settled into something Bilbo considered to approximate maturity. They still possessed the Durin lust for a fight, though; they agreed, but only under protest. Balin thought it somewhat scandalous that the king would go out to meet anyone at the gates, but once they had relayed Gandalf's warning, he had understood - the old adviser trusted the wizard as well, though he would be quick to point out that 'trusting' and 'liking' were two different things indeed. Thorin wore the Dragon Crown on his head and the Axe of Dain strapped to his back. Even so when they came to the gate Bilbo drew back instinctively at the sight of the dark rider who waited there, a tall black-cloaked figure standing beside a gaunt horse as dark as coal. The mark of the Red Eye shone from his saddlebags. Something about the figure felt tainted and wrong, like an illness. Thorin glanced over at Bilbo and took in his expression, and the king's own face became colder. He gestured for Balin, who stepped forward.

"Who are you, to come demanding the King Under the Mountain, and what do you wish?" the old dwarf said. Balin had aged quite a bit and was just over three hundred (truly ancient for a dwarf) but the elderly Minister still stood tall and looked impressive for all his age. Ori was unobtrusively taking notes on a wax tablet he had brought for this purpose.

"I come as ambassador and emissary of a great power rising in the south," came the courtly but sibilant reply. "I would pass within and speak with the great and famed King Under the Mountain, on matters of our mutual concern and benefit." The voice was polite but terrifying, and it had a mesmerizing quality that told Bilbo magic was involved. The dark figure's power throbbed around him, and Bilbo would have been overwhelmed with fear (and a splitting headache) if he hadn't spent fifty years enduring the power of the Dragon Crown and the Axe of Dain at close quarters. He wondered for a moment if this wasn't the sorcerer who had sent the orc-men hybrids, but no sigil of the White Hand was visible. The rider appeared both fascinating and horrible at the same time. Oddly echoing words rattled unpleasantly in the ear, demanding belief from the listener. Bilbo suspected that this was how a mouse might feel when seeing a snake. Thorin, of course, was immune to such tricks because of the crown.

"The king is here, and I am he," he said, stepping forward. "But foreigners are not permitted into the mountain at present. Speak, then, and let us hear your business and have done with it." The cloaked messenger drew back as if in surprise, but again Bilbo thought the motion closer to a snake coiling to strike than any genuine surprise. The hooded figure bowed low in the fashion of men. No face was visible beneath the heavy cowl.

"Great king," came the hissing voice, "I greet you in the name of my own lord, one who seeks only friendship and amity with your people. Your kingdom is strong, I see, and we rejoice in the strength of others, even as we ourselves are strong. Let us at least step aside, and speak privately, that I may tell you of..." Thorin cut him off.

"With me are my Consort, my Minister, my Chamberlain, and my guards," the king said, smiling in a seemingly friendly fashion. "We do not much care for side dealings and secret discussions, we dwarves." Bilbo kept his shocked amusement off his face through sheer force of will. "Let us speak openly, that there be no misunderstandings. Who is this great power you speak of, and why is Erebor of interest to one so far away?" Thorin's face looked calm and surprisingly pleasant, not his usual scowl of seeming boredom. He really had mastered the art of keeping his feelings off of his face, Bilbo thought in a flash of pride. He could tell by the set of the king's shoulders and the tension in his hands that Thorin was deeply uncomfortable, but he doubted the rider was able to detect such subtleties. Nothing about that cloaked figure hinted at subtlety; from the hidden face to the steel boots, this was a being whose preferred method was the hammer, not the stiletto.

"Not all ears should be privy to all things, great king, but if these are trusted advisors, I shall speak as you wish. My master has sent me, hearing of your fame even in the south... he bids me seek friends in all places. Indeed, he has been called Annatar, the Generous One, and he can be generous to those he deems worthy. I am bid tell you that he has in his possession things you would find of interest, relics of your kin from times past. He would gladly provide these trinkets to you, or even greater treasures, in exchange for your friendship. We seek allies in the north, to ensure that we are all strong together... for nothing provides security to a realm like strong neighbors and allies. Do you not find it so?" Thorin still smiled, but from the side Bilbo saw a thin trail of sweat trickling beside his ear from beneath the crown. The king seemed nervous and ill at ease, and the hobbit wondered why. Surely everything this rider said was reasonable enough, the shadowy figure seemed odd but trustworthy. Looking around, he saw all the dwarves smiling and nodding; they felt as he did. Who could argue with such a sensible request? Their fears seemed baseless, though didn't the rider seem an odd sort! Still, he reasoned, Thorin was wearing the crown, and it would have shown him that... that... oh. Cursing in his own mind, he threw off the beguiling enchantment of words which the creature had woven, reasoning his way out of its sticky webs. The Generous One indeed! With such mind-bending skills at play, it was no wonder the rider wanted to get Thorin alone. Bilbo's own experience demonstrated how impossible it was to resist such spells without someone to point out how unreasonable the words were (at least, without a Dragon Crown to grant immunity to such tricks).

"Your words are intruiging, I confess, though I do not know how my folk might be of use. Allies at such remote distance are hardly useful, and surely your lord intends no war in the far north... at least I should hope not, war is so bad for trade. But you interest me." Thorin said, and Bilbo glanced over in veiled surprise. Surely, the crown had blocked... "I will not say yes, but I will not say no. Tell me more of these 'trinkets', as you call them." Thorin's hand crept out and grasped Bilbo's wrist, urging him closer, and the sweaty grip of that hand made the hobbit realize that the king was likely playing for information. The emissary made a pleased sound.

"Many things that might interest even a great king... My master has rings, rings such as were given to the dwarf lords of old, to grow their hoards beyond riches, beyond the wildest dreams of avarice. Even to a great lord such as yourself, gold is the gift that is always welcome. Gold is a key that can open every door and every heart alike. Imagine the wealth that could be yours to command with such a thing... greater even than the fabled wealth of Belegost or even Moria the Great." The cold voice was almost purring now, weaving webs of greed. Thorin shifted uncomfortably. Bilbo fought free of the latest enchantment by the same reasoning as before. He wondered if the Dragon Crown might be growing uncomfortable; he still remembered decades past when even an echo of the voice of Morgoth made it glow red-hot. He knew the messenger had well and truly put its foot in it now; anyone who had the least knowledge of Thorin knew his opinion of gold, after the madness that claimed his father. "One such ring might be gifted to you, or even more, if you could assist my lord with a few simple things, mere trifles to one so powerful. It seems excessive as rewards go, but as I have said, the generosity of my lord is legendary in such matters." The hooded figure didn't move, but seemed to loom over Thorin somehow, open hand extended in its concealing leather gauntlet. Bilbo remembered the tales of the corruption and destruction wrought by the rings 'gifted' to others during the Second Age, and wondered how he might warn Thorin before he accepted something deadly in guise of a 'gift'. The hobbit felt a cold wind ripple through the entry area where they stood, fingering his hems and smelling of mold and decay. Thorin stood like a statue, appearing to think. Balin was smiling and leaned forward to whisper to the king, but a quick gesture motioned him back. Finally Thorin grimaced and after a moment shook his head, drawing himself up.

"I fear I must refuse. Our wealth is already more than sufficient to us, and too much gold can be as deadly as too little. I regret to say that we have no need of such things, and no need of allies so far away. The kingdom of Erebor declines your offer." The figure hissed again furiously, stepping forward to loom over Thorin and made as if to draw its sword. Without seeming to move, the king had the Axe of Dain in his hand. As though it had appeared there by magic, the silvery blade pulsed in the uncertain light, fiery waves of energy emanating from it. The guards all jerked, as though coming out of a trance, drawing their weapons as well. Thorin bared his teeth in what even a blind man wouldn't call a grin. "And so the true face of 'friendship' is revealed! Do all ambassadors from your land call so quickly on their swords when their tongues prove unable to win the fight?" A hiss was the only response, low and venomous. "Do not threaten me, creature of shadow. Your spells are powerless here, and I have struck down worse than you in the deep places of the world. Get gone from my doorstep."

"Filthy little dirt-grubber!" The robed figure sprung onto the horse, which reared up, eyes rolling. A cold wind blew strong, whipping around Bilbo's bare shins and making his bones ache. "You will wish you had heard my lord's offer with kindness in time, and wish indeed you had treated me more respectfully. Until we meet again, and on your head be the consequences of your foolishness!" A loud, drawn out cry came from the darkness beneath hood, and everyone present (except Thorin) fell to the ground holding their heads. Bilbo remembered this feeling all too well, though it was fifty years past... the sense of utter hopelessness had been wielded like a weapon by a shadow in a ruined dwarven city. His chest felt like a knife was stuck in it. Thorin remained resolute, though, and stepped forward grimly with the axe. He swung at the armored leg before him, but both horse and rider exploded into mist before the axe blade could touch them and were gone. The king almost overbalanced, finding no resistance where he expected to hew flesh. In the distance, a lingering wail faded away into silence. Well, the hobbit thought shakily, I suppose that explains how they get about so quickly. Despite his fury, Thorin's face was drawn and grey, and Balin looked like he had aged another century in the few minutes they had been outside.

"Hammer of Mahal," one of the guards muttered, and the others all made fearful signs against evil. The group quickly withdrew and Thorin bid the guards to make sure the mechanisms were prepared should it become necessary to shut the gate for a time. Bilbo, Thorin and their party made their way back up the long distance to the royal quarters as the guards went to rouse the engineers. No questions were asked as to why such measures might be necessary; after the display of sorcery at the front gate, doubtless word would be all over the city by the following nightfall.

"I have never seen those gates closed," Thorin muttered to Bilbo as they crossed the second open bridge across the market. Though he hated to do so, Bilbo was leaning heavily on his husband's arm. With the look on the king's face, the hobbit thought maybe it brought a component of comfort to Thorin as well. Looking down, they could see a bustle of activity around the gates. "When the armies marched out to Azanulbizar, they were shut, but I was with the army. They were open when we returned... those of us that did." A haunted look crossed his face. "To think that I would be king when the mountain would be threatened in such a manner! I suppose each time has its own troubles, and armies are nothing new, but this business of sorcery and dark magics... faugh!"

"Those gates hold no small enchantment themselves," Bilbo replied, somewhat out of breath. "The runes on them shine to my Deep Sight like bonfires and I suspect that when the two leaves of the gate are joined, the runes unite as well, each increasing the strength of the other. When those gates are closed, I do not believe that sorcerer could breach them, though he was terrifying." He panted a bit, wishing his chest would stop hurting. "And I don't doubt a thousand trolls could bang on them until the end of the Age and not even scratch them. If the gates are closed, we will be safe, unless they have some truly potent devilry we have not yet seen." Thorin grunted and seemed unconvinced. Sadly, such devilry was likely, the hobbit thought. The strength of dwarven citadels was legendary, but they certainly did seem to fall often enough. Truly all the dwarves he had met had developed a deep fear of it. They, of all the races, seemed to just be cursed with bad luck. Even if they built something impregnable, it seemed almost inevitable that something would happen. A dragon destroyed Sarkhubuland, though it was new-dug, nothing like Erebor; Durin's Bane took Khazad-Dum. The Valar themselves destroyed Tumunzahar and Gabilgathol with the changing of the world, with no more notice of the ancient fortresses than a horse gives an ant. Even the clans native to the far South were not spared; the ancestral home of the Blacklocks was lost when a volcano opened directly beneath it. The Stiffbeards fled their ancient home one day and none who survived would say what had happened, or why they had all run outside in the middle of the night. None who entered the ancient gates returned. The dwarves believed that the universe took delight in persecuting them, and Bilbo was beginning to wonder if they weren't correct. They reached the royal quarters a half hour later, but it was a long time before Bilbo could sleep. Thoughts of that dark figure exploding into mist haunted him that night and many others.

A carefully worded message was received from Elrond of Rivendell indicating that Frodo had departed on his 'errand' in the company of friends (Bilbo sourly noting that exactly who those friends were was never specified). Gloin sent word from Rivendell that he was wintering there; Bilbo hoped that there were trade opportunities for him, to at least give him something to do. A bored dwarf was a dangerous thing. Based on the communications from Elrond bundled with Gloin's short note, it seemed that the black messenger who had come was something called a 'Nazgul' or ring-wraith - all that was left of some great sorcerer having received one of Sauron's 'generous gifts' of a ring. Just the idea gave Bilbo the cold shivers. For safety nobody gave the names of the party members to accompany Frodo, but Bilbo nearly went mad with curiosity when "hobbits" were mentioned. Who else from the Shire would possibly go on such a (by hobbit standards) nasty and hare-brained adventure? Bilbo had no idea. He knew that Frodo was friends with some disreputable Took or other, as well as one of the crowd of young Brandybucks he had never met, so he wondered if they had been coerced into attending. Finally Thorin told him to stop dwelling on it, since there was no way to know. The only thing he hated worse than Thorin pointing out that he was being unreasonable was when he was right, so he stopped mentioning it.

The next two months passed achingly slowly. Short days after the encounter at the gate, winter came on with a vengeance. The storms were the worst in decades. Deep snows closed the passes, and drifts piled up in front of the gates halfway to the battlements. The giant statues of dwarven warriors guarding the gate looked like they had been dressed in white robes, armor hidden beneath caked drifts of blown snow. Despite the icy weather outside the gates, deep in the mountain the forges worked ceaselessly producing weapons of war and of defense, arrows and bolts and shields. The shoring of the mountain defenses continued, though the storms curtailed the efforts to arrange the outside more to their liking. One icy morning a raven came winging in from the west, thin and shivering, bearing a letter from the forests of Lorien. It was oblique, typical of Elvish correspondence, but in the first paragraph of the missive before any of the news of geopolitics was a simple sentence that hit Bilbo like a spear: Frodo sends his regards. The old hobbit clutched the letter to his chest and focused on breathing. He knew that any return message would arrive long after his nephew had left, but the temptation was tremendous. The journey from the Shire to Lorien was the easy part, given where Bilbo suspected they were going, but it was still a remarkable distance. He hoped that Gandalf and the mysterious companions were keeping his young nephew safe, and upon reflection, hoped that Frodo wasn't driving Gandalf completely spare as well. Smiling with relief, he continued reading. His smile was soon erased.

Thorin came in from his inspection of the deep mines after a few hours, dour and brooding, and found Bilbo sitting in a darkened room staring into the ashes of a fire which had been allowed to go almost completely out. " _Azyungel_?" he said softly, but Bilbo didn't move. The king removed the cover from the lamp, brightening the room. The hobbit was vaguely aware of him, but it was as though a mist had fallen over the world. Thorin's touch came as a surprise, fingers pressed to the side of his neck, but he couldn't miss the significance of the deep and relieved sigh that followed. In spite of his malaise a thread of irritation sparked in him.

"I'm not dead, thank you very much," he said, though he patted Thorin's arm to take the sting out of his words. "I've just had a terrible shock." Thorin stopped poking up the fire and turned to look at his husband. The hobbit took a deep breath. "Frodo and the others passed through Khazad-Dum; only the Green Lady knows why they went there at all. Gandalf fought Durin's Bane on Durin's bridge, and he and it fell together into the chasm. The others were fine but Gandalf is... gone." Thorin dropped the poker and came and sat with Bilbo, face showing the same horrified astonishment that the hobbit still felt echoing in his own mind. 'I've just received word from Galadriel, and Frodo and his friends are there safe in Lothlorien. But Gandalf..." He stopped and looked away.

Thorin sighed out a deep breath, then put his arm around the hobbit. " _Ghivashel_ , I can't even imagine a world without Tharkun in it. He has appeared in our records for thousands of years, since before that island with the men sank. Perhaps there's some mistake." Bilbo shrugged helplessly, though as usual Thorin's refusal to remember anything about the Numenoreans made him want to roll his eyes. They sat for another moment, drawing comfort from each other. "Still... I hesitate to mention it, but there's more bad news." Bilbo looked wearily over at him, and he could tell by the shocked expression in those pale blue eyes just how exhausted he must appear. Cursing, he forced his wave of self-loathing down; he hated getting old, but Thorin hated to see him angry at himself as well. He raised an eyebrow, and the king finally spoke. "You remember we had tools getting misplaced, food being stolen, and things going missing in the deep mines?" At Bilbo's nod, Thorin sighed. "We found a goblin down there."

" _A_ goblin? As in, one?" Bilbo said incredulously. "I've never heard of a single goblin, I thought they were like ants, if there's one, there's loads." 

Thorin looked back at him grim-faced. "They are. As you say, where one appears, others follow shortly. There's no way he could have gotten down there through the gates." Bilbo gasped in horror, mind making connections as Thorin spoke.

"They've found a way in! There's a hole in the defenses! Oh Thorin, we have to..." His chest spasmed with pain. Bilbo stopped speaking and closed his eyes. He rubbed at his breastbone, waiting for the pain to pass as it always did.

"What's wrong?" Thorin said softly. "Should I get Oin?" Bilbo shook his head, swallowing a few times since it seemed to help. "Bilbo..."

"I'm fine, Thorin, I'm just old! It hurts to be old, as you will eventually discover. Every bloody thing hurts. My feet hurt, my knees hurt, my hips hurt, my..." He took a deep breath, fighting for calm, ignoring the spike that seemed to be driving itself beneath his ribs. Even his husband's comforting hand on his shoulder seemed to hurt, but he would never say such a thing out loud. Bilbo forced his mind back to the subject at hand, cursing his decrepit and failing body. "Do you think it came from an unknown tunnel from the outside, or up from the deeps?"

Thorin shook his head, still eyeing Bilbo with barely-concealed worry. "We don't know, and it was dead before we could interrogate it. It had been there for more than a week, so there were tracks leading all over. If it came from outside, we must find the tunnel immediately. An army could come up through the mines and emerge practically in the markets. We'd never get the filth rooted out. If it came up from the deeps..." Thorin grimaced. "I've never heard of a goblin going down that far. There are things down there that would terrify them; for all their noise and stink, goblins are cowards. I can't believe they'd find a way in through there, but I've ordered the lower gates sealed just in case." The silver-haired dwarf sighed deeply. "I'd almost rather they came from the deeps than from some unknown hole to the outside, though. I don't know which is worse."

Bilbo sighed. "We should talk to Mun tomorrow; he's Lord of War, it will be his troops fighting so he's sure to have an opinion. Get Nar to search for the tunnel; if there's a hole to the outside, he'll find it. If not, perhaps we can seal the deeps." The pain in his chest had mostly subsided by now. Bilbo put his head on his husband's shoulder. "I'm worried, Thorin. There are too many supposedly disconnected things happening, but they're all bad. I have a terrible feeling this is a lot worse than we know." He felt his husband nodding. As usual after one of his severe attacks, the old hobbit felt muzzy-headed and exhausted.

"I will talk to Mun at Council tomorrow, _azyungel_. You, on the other hand, I want to rest." Bilbo glared at him, but fifty years of the hobbit's dark looks had left Thorin as immune as any spouse to glares from their mate. "I mean it, Bilbo. I want Oin to take a look at you; this chest pain you have isn't right. I've seen you rubbing your chest quite a bit, and these attacks you have are scaring me." He kissed Bilbo's forehead to avoid looking at the expression of betrayal on the hobbit's face. "And," Thorin said, trying for a joke, "if I'm willing to deal with Mun myself, you know I mean it."

Bilbo snorted. "Well, if you miss old Ragni so much, you can always ask General Mun to call you Thror and tell you about his grandson." The ancient and senile dwarf who had been Lord of War when Bilbo arrived had retired more than forty years ago, but Bilbo still teased Thorin about her. Her retirement had been a private cause for royal celebration, as had the ceremony when Turi replaced Imalek as Loremaster. As much as the hobbit hated to admit it, he knew his husband was right. It was time to see the doctor. "Have the victory, then... I'll talk to Oin about these pains." Thorin smiled in relief, but wisely chose not to comment. "And if you come back from the Council in one of your rages, don't bother to come and tell me about it. You know how they act when I'm not there." That thought was enough to pull the smile off Thorin's face, and Bilbo snickered in his mind. Point having been made, he snuggled back into Thorin's side, closed his eyes, and enjoyed the feeling of warmth from his husband. They would have to go to dinner soon, and meet with Dis, and a thousand other things, but for right now this was enough. He barely noticed when he drifted off to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit to Oin, a fight in Bilbo's rooms, and sad confessions in the garden of Yavanna.

Bilbo sighed softly to himself. Oin had kept him far longer than he had wanted to be gone, especially since Thorin was in Council. The hobbit had harbored some dim fantasy of being done in time to attend the second session of the High Council in the afternoon, but of course the elderly physician had other plans. After being comprehensively poked, prodded, kneaded and (in one particularly memorable moment) divined over with burning herbs, Oin finally shook his head and sat down next to Bilbo at the table he used. The hobbit was starving, having missed at least two meals while being examined, and found himself to be in a rather foul mood because of it. Dwarven medicine had always been a mystery, far different than the Shire practices Bilbo was familiar with. In Hobbiton, herbal infusions and poultices were a commonplace, but then everyone in the Shire was prone to various illnesses and allergies. Every winter a cold went around, or older people would get wet lungs. Dwarves weren't prone to disease; for whatever reason, they just didn't get ill. Oin found the whole concept vaguely disturbing. Nevertheless, the elderly doctor was a brilliant surgeon, since dwarves were (as Bilbo knew all too well) highly prone to injury and subsequent infections. They were also occasionally subject to the failure of bodily organs... which brought Oin to the conclusion he had finally reached. "It's yer heart, lad." Bilbo wasn't sure whether to laugh or to run hide, but he was absolutely certain he had never felt less like a lad. "I'll give you a tea; take it in the morning, first thing. It should help with the symptoms, but..." The elderly dwarf pulled a face, running his hand down his forehead and rubbing his eyes. "Highness..."

"Oin, please," the hobbit said, "we've known each other for fifty years, I'll thank you to call me Bilbo when I'm sick the same as when I'm well. Highness indeed!" The old dwarf grinned shamefacedly, but the worry on his face told Bilbo more than he wanted to know. Well, he thought with a sinking feeling, that doesn't look promising. Perhaps I shan't beat the Old Took after all.

"Aye, Bilbo, that we have. That we have." The physician toyed for a moment with one of the metal diagnostic tools on his table. Finally, he grunted and stood, making up a packet of dried herbs and handing it over, then sat again. "Here, take this. A spoonful every morning steeped and strained, before food. The foxglove will help a bit. Avoid stress an' bein' upset. I feel a right fool for sayin' so, since you and Thorin both take the world on yer shoulders. But hear me... this racin' about the mountain has to stop." Bilbo felt his face drawing down, but before he could say a word, Oin gave him a look. "I mean it. Ye've got to slow down, if ye want to see the spring. Yer heart simply won't take it. These attacks ye've been havin', they've harmed it a bit, and each one weakens it a bit more. Slow down. Let Fili or Dis take some of yer tasks on, and make sure ye get plenty o' sleep and rest."

Bilbo finally could take no more. "Oin, I'm sure you're concerned, but there's no time to..." The old dwarf held up a hand to cut him off, and the gesture was so out of character Bilbo stopped, shocked.

"Harken to me now... There's time to rest, or there's time to be buried. I don't mean to be so blunt, but ye must hear me. I know ye say ye're old fer a hobbit, and I believe ye, though in dwarf years ye're barely a lad yet. But I tell ye true, Bilbo, yer heart'll not take the life ye're tryin' to force on it. If you keep on livin' like yer running t' a fire, ye may not last the month." Bilbo opened his mouth to argue, shout a denial, say anything really, but Oin's solemn face was a stronger argument than his words. Oh, he thought sadly. Well. A sinking sensation pulled his stomach through the floor. He was no longer hungry; in fact he felt vaguely nauseous. The astringent odor of dried herbs was usually comforting, but at the moment seemed cloying and hard to breathe.

"So..." he swallowed, fighting for words. "If I rest..." He couldn't finish the sentence, but thankfully Oin knew what he meant to ask.

"It's a bit hard to say," the old dwarf said uncomfortably. Sturdy, scarred fingers twirled a small scalpel around and around. "Could be as little as a few months... could be a year or more. Like I said, the herbs' ll help with the symptoms and take away these shooting pains ye've been havin', but ye mustn't think nae pain means yer fit. Rest, or it'll go ill for you, mark my words." The hobbit nodded soberly.

"Thorin will be on me like a hen with her chicks... you know how protective he gets." Bilbo said, fighting for humor. Fifty years of keeping his emotions off his face in council meetings was all that stood between him and collapse, but he held on. Glancing around the room piled up with medical detritus, bundles of various herbs hanging from hooks on the walls, he was able to distance himself a bit from the emotional blow. Oin nodded sadly, trying and notably failing to produce a smile. "Oh Oin, I told him when we first talked about courting this day would come. Still, it's one thing to know it in the mind, and another thing entirely to look up and realize that the time has arrived." This did make the old physician grin in spite of himself.

"Fifty years among us, Bilbo, and ye still don't see. I s'pose ye can't. Yer his One; there was lit'rally no other way this could be. He could be happy for fifty years and then sad, or sad right away for all fifty and more besides, with no happiness - there was no other choice. Mahal himself said so, or did I just dream of that big bell a-ringin' and nigh bringin' down the whole face o' the mountain?" Oin shook his head, giving a soft chuckle. "I'm craft-wed, me. Never felt the call. But Thorin is a lucky bastard t' find his One and have so long wi' ye. Never doubt it." This did make Bilbo tear up and he cursed how age made his emotions so difficult to control.

"He... he says that. All the time." The hobbit sniffled a bit in spite of himself. "I just wish it were easier to believe him. Oin, I'm not the easiest person to get along with, I know that, but I hate the idea of causing him pain. I can't bear to see him suffer, but here we are. I suppose we've eaten the meal and enjoyed it, but now the bill is due, and I find it a steep price indeed."

"Not the...! Are ye mad?" The old dwarf bellowed. The hobbit was completely taken aback. Oin seemed actually angry, and in their entire fifty year acquaintance he'd never seen Oin properly lose his temper before. "Maybe I gave ye the wrong medicine, 'tis clear yer mind is goin' as well as yer heart! Now you listen t' me, Bilbo Baggins, ye're the very soul o' this mountain, and every dwarf here knows it! You left yer home, ye came t' this place where you didn't know a soul and you owed nothin' to anyone, but even so ye gave all ye had t' make it strong and rich. Even today ye give and give, and ask not a thing fer yerself, and still ye say 'not the easiest person to get along with'! Bollocks! I'll not hear another word o' that sort o' shite, and I'll not listen t' self-pity from someone who's had a life out o' bloody legends." Bilbo sat stunned in his seat, and he couldn't imagine what his expression must be, but Oin caught himself and gave a rueful laugh. "There, and ye've got me yellin' at me patients, and right after tellin' ye not to get upset. My apologies."

Bilbo shook himself. The shock of the news had worn off a bit during Oin's tirade, not least from surprise, and he felt his mind begin to return from numbness. "Good heavens! I... thank you, Oin. For telling me the truth, and for your kind words just now. It means a great deal to hear you say those things, even if... well," he broke off at Oin's returning glower. "At any rate, thank you. I will just try to make the most of the time I have... oh Green Lady, whatever will I tell Thorin?" Bilbo wanted to scream, but remembering his recent medical advice, he simply sat and tried to breathe. Thorin could be overwhelmingly protective under the best of circumstances even when there was nothing particularly the matter; when he told him of Oin's diagnosis, he would never have a moment to himself again. Oin chuckled ruefully and shook his head.

"That's yer shaft t'mine, and I don't envy ye the work of it," the elderly dwarf said, trying to smile and ending up with a sort of sad grimace. Bilbo could tell he was trying to make light of the situation, and he appreciated it, but really the hobbit had just wanted to get back to his quarters and take a moment to breathe. He still had no idea of how to break this news to Thorin without sending his husband into a fit. Groaning, he thanked the old physician and picked his way slowly back to his rooms. If luck was on his side, he would be able to have a bite and a nice sit down and think for a bit before he had to face Thorin.

=

Luck was not on his side. He was barely in the hall leading to the Consort's Chambers when he heard the shouting. Of all days, he thought bitterly. You would think I would be used to coming back to screaming and madness in my rooms after fifty years, but it never gets any less annoying. Gritting his teeth, he opened the door onto chaos. Dis was standing in front of the fire, hands waving wildly as she shouted at Thorin, who was bellowing back at her while pacing the room like an angry bear. Fili and Kili sat in adjoining chairs beside the couch, Fili trying to make himself heard while Kili held his head in his hands, dark hair falling forward to hide his face. Dis ranted "If you think for one moment we are going to- "

Thorin, meanwhile, was shouting "Stop being stubborn and listen-"

Because Bilbo was closer to Fili, he thought he heard him whine "I'm not going to tie myself to some-" What on earth? Well, the hobbit thought, this might be interesting indeed.

Bilbo slammed the door with all the force he could muster, and the noise made everyone stop shouting at each other and look over; dark eyes peered from underneath Kili's thatch of black hair. Thorin's face fell when he saw Bilbo, but Dis' blood was up and the hobbit knew all too well when she got like this she would yell at Mahal himself. He spoke before anyone could break the silence. "Good evening," he said, sarcasm dripping from each word, "so lovely that you all felt like coming to share your screaming row with me. I feel so blessed! Do I dare ask what this is about, or shall I try to puzzle it out from everyone talking at once?" Thorin deflated at his husband's glare, but Dis simply huffed an angry breath.

"The Council demands that I leave with Kili! They're trying to-" she shouted, but Thorin jumped back in the fray.

"Nobody is saying-" Bilbo opened the door like he was departing and they both stopped and looked at him in puzzlement. He closed it again, but left his hand poised on the latch.

"If you continue to talk over each other, I'm leaving. I'm happy to hear about it, but frankly," Bilbo said as his eyes began to itch with tears of frustration, "it's been a very long day and I don't have the patience to sit here and listen to you all bellowing over each other like war boars. Now sit and speak like normal people, or get out." Thorin understood immediately that Bilbo was upset, and his face changed when he remembered where the hobbit had spent the afternoon. He came over and practically shooed Bilbo onto the couch next to the two younger Durins, fetching him a cup of tea. Dis quirked an eyebrow, but she was obviously too irritated to comment on anything other than whatever enormity the Council had perpetrated that afternoon. Bilbo sighed in relief as he sipped his tea in the warmth from the fire. His husband sat next to him, perching on the edge of the couch as though poised to leap up again at a moment's notice. "Thank you, Thorin. Now. I know you went to the Council this afternoon, and clearly they've been particularly difficult. Can someone tell me what happened in a normal tone of voice?" He looked around. The king was looking down at his lap, but Dis opened her mouth. Before she could say a thing, Fili spoke up.

"They want to me to get married." His golden hair was falling out of the complicated court braids he had put in for the Council session, but the glaring blue eyes and jutting jaw made his Durin blood quite apparent. With his face like that, he looked so much like a young Thorin Bilbo felt a pang of memory from that first meeting at his door in the Shire. It took a moment for Fili's words to register, but when they did, he looked up in shock and Fili's sad eyes met his. Bilbo shook his head in confusion.

"Married? To whom?" Fili just shook his head, mouth drawn down to a grim line. The hobbit felt wrong-footed like he hadn't in years; at the same time, he felt a memory of his own fury when a previous High Council had attempted to force Thorin to break off their betrothal. Thorin shook his head sourly. Finally Bilbo asked "Dis, what's this about?"

"The Council seems to have decided," Dis said with asperity, "that the line of Durin must be protected from everyone, including itself. They want Kili and me to go to the Iron Hills until this army either appears or turns out to be a false warning, and they want Fili to marry and have children as soon as possible! Those dwarves have lost what tiny shred of common sense, let alone decency, that they..." Bilbo grimaced. Thorin was bad enough when he began ranting, but Dis made Thorin seem calm and pensive when she got going. He knew how this worked, so he simply nodded along until she paused for breath.

"That's an interesting thought about the travel, and something to consider later, but why Fili? And why now? Have you..." he glanced at Fili uncomfortably. Kili had come out from behind his hands and hair, and was now grinning like a goblin at how awkward these questions might become for his brother. Bilbo swatted pre-emptively at the dark-haired younger brother with one hand while he asked "Fili, is there anyone in particular you've been interested in courting? You know we are all fine with the idea, no matter who it might be." Blood rushed into Fili's face, turning it a splotchy red under all the blond braids, and Kili cackled. "Or," Bilbo pressed on, "is this simply something that the High Council has decided needs to happen, and you don't get any say in it? I'm familiar with that tendency of theirs, I can assure you." He glanced at Thorin, who looked disgusted. Bilbo frankly hated conversations about courting, because they were full of the sort of cultural landmines that made his first few years in Erebor so tricky. He had told Thorin long ago during their own courting that he was amazed that any dwarves ever married at all given how fiddly and ridiculous all the rules were, and nothing he had seen or learned in the intervening decades had changed his mind. He detested the whole subject.

"No, Uncle," Fili said softly. "There's nobody. Not yet, anyway. I know that kings must marry often for state reasons and not for love, but I had hoped..." he glanced away awkwardly.

"Fili reads love stories constantly!" Kili interjected. "He wants to find his One, and swoon around the halls after them, and pine for them, and..." Fili punched him and only Bilbo's glare stopped the incipient tussle from developing. Kili demonstrated his new-found maturity though by looking down and saying "Sorry, Fili." A curt nod of approval from Thorin and a smile from Bilbo made the younger prince grin again, but Fili still looked heartsick. Thorin's voice cut across the awkward pause in the conversation.

"As I was trying to say, before your mother tried to collapse the room around our ears with her voice, you needn't worry that I'm going to force you to marry anyone," Thorin said, glaring at Dis who glared back. "I didn't meet Bilbo until I was almost two hundred, and if I'd been married already there would have been a tremendous scandal." He cut his eyes over to the hobbit beside him and received an identical look in return. "Even more of a scandal than there already was, anyway, difficult as that might be to believe. I am the least likely king to try to force someone else into a political match, when I fought it for myself for so long. If you were craft-wed it would be worth considering politically, but Fili... you know me better than that. If you truly feel the call to your One I would never do such a thing, and I wouldn't let the Council force you into it either. Don't worry about it." Bilbo was glad to hear Thorin say it, though he never doubted that would be the king's answer; it was important for Fili to understand that this wasn't some sort of family ambush. The princes had always had a sort of odd paranoia about things like that, Fili even worse than Kili. Bilbo had always wondered just what had gone on during the reign of Thrain to leave the boys so oddly fearful. Then again, he thought, better not to know; the stories he had heard of the mad king's whims were enough to scorch the hair on his feet, if there were worse things than those in the past, let them stay in the past. The hobbit slid over on the couch and patted Fili's hand for comfort once he could reach it.

Bilbo sighed. "Well, then that's settled for now. After this is all over, perhaps we can send you on a diplomatic tour to other dwarven kingdoms and you can spot your One somewhere along the way." Bilbo grinned and Fili gave him a worried half-smile in spite of himself. He glanced over and caught Dis giving him a look of such approval he thought she might burst. One thing he had to give the whole family, the hobbit thought in amusement, they were no better at hiding their joys than their rages. He supposed they might as well deal with the other point so he could get this crowd of people out of his rooms. He was already exhausted and he knew there was no chance of getting to bed without discussing Oin's diagnosis with his husband. "So what was this about travel?" Dis' mulish look returned.

"The Council demanded that Kili and I go to the Iron Hills... demanded, mind you! They said it wasn't proper for all the heirs of Durin's line to be in one place under threat of war! It's the most ridiculous..." Bilbo glanced at Thorin, and saw his own concerns mirrored on the king's face.

"Dis..." Bilbo said softly. "I don't think it's ridiculous. In fact, they may be right on this one." She immediately began spluttering furiously, but he held up his hand. "Hear me out, please. Do I think Erebor will fall? No, of course not. But I'm sure that your ancestors never thought it was possible that Khazad-Dum would fall, either. If an army is coming here, they know how strong we are rumored to be, and still they come... they wouldn't if they didn't think they had a chance of taking us. We don't know what tricks they may have hidden in their pockets. Besides, what better way to demonstrate our trust and regard for the Iron Hills than to send Thorin's sister and second heir to stay with Dain? Politically, it's a powerful gesture of trust, and not one that will be lost on anyone else trying to start trouble here. And if something unexpected happens, you're not stuck here with the rest of us, but can mobilize a rescue effort." He noticed that her flush had subsided; good, he thought, use that mind of yours a bit, sister mine (for Dis truly was the sister he never had, he thought fondly). Thorin was grinning as he always did when Bilbo did something particularly clever. Sending a wry look at his eldest nephew, Bilbo said "And perhaps when all is resolved, we can send Fili to get you so that he can take a look at all the young, lovely dwarves in another city." Kili's whoop of laughter could probably be heard in Dale.

=

After another hour of soothing Dis' wounded pride and comforting both her sons that they were neither being ignored (Fili) nor sent away unfairly (Kili), the rest of the family left and Thorin and Bilbo were at last alone. Thorin turned to him immediately once the door shut. "I thought they'd never leave! _Azyungel_ , what did Oin say? What are these chest pains? Did he...?" Bilbo cut him off with a kiss. He knew they had to talk about what he had heard but, selfishly, he wanted a few more minutes of something like normality. He traced his hand along the bearded face and smiled into pale blue eyes, though he didn't feel particularly happy. He knew this news would hurt, and he hated hurting Thorin more than anything in the world.

"Thorin, let's go to the garden. I haven't been in weeks, and I want to see it. It's almost spring, surely something is blooming. We can watch the sunset, like old times." Thorin looked ready to burst from frustration. He gave his husband a narrow look but Bilbo's expression told him clearly not to push too hard. Practically bouncing with impatience (and looking more than a tiny bit like his nephews, the hobbit thought in melancholy amusement), Thorin nodded and escorted Bilbo to the end of the hall and they passed through a hidden door. When the shrine to Yavanna had been finished during the year after their marriage, one of the gifts given by the guilds to the couple was a special passage outside to the newly completed gardens. The miners dug a straight line out and down from the royal suites where they lay deep in the mountain for almost a quarter of a mile to the rock face in the back of the garden. It was a masterpiece of engineering and stonesense both, to dig in a straight line so far and end up exactly where desired. The Craftlord had given, as his part, a proper magical dwarf-door, such that when it was shut it was invisible and impassable. It could not even be seen, unless the person carried the key. When Bilbo and Thorin went, they merely left it standing open; if anyone else got the key, it might be disastrous, and the stairs down the face of the mountain ended practically at the front gate so there was no danger if they accidentally got locked out (beyond the inconvenience of a long trip). They came out into the final light of the day, and went to sit on a bench some distance in front of the statue of Yavanna. In the distance, the sun was a glowing ball of crimson fire, sinking slowly behind the mountains barely visible on the horizon. Around the bench, deep purple crocuses and a few hardy daffodils were beginning to poke up out of the ground.

Thorin sighed and took Bilbo's hand, caressing the gnarled fingers with his own strong ones. "It was bad, wasn't it." He said softly, not really a question. Bilbo nodded and looked away, not wanting to see his husband's face right now. He felt like he was holding on by a thread, and if Thorin started crying it would be the end of him.

"Oin said..." Bilbo choked up for a moment, then started again. "Oin said that my heart was giving out. He gave me medicine for it, which will help." The second sentence was said hastily, trying to prevent an outburst, though Thorin's hand tightened on his almost painfully. "He said that I needed to rest more, which you knew already. If I slow down and delegate some of my tasks..." his words were interrupted as Thorin wrapped his arm around the hobbit, pulling him into the warmth and solidity of his embrace. Bilbo couldn't help inhaling the scent of Thorin's hair; even after all these years, moments like this reminded him how lucky he was.

"How long?" was all Thorin said. His voice was soft but resigned; clearly he had been expecting this on some level.

"A year. Maybe less." Such short, ugly words, Bilbo thought. Thorin gave a half-sob and Bilbo felt the dwarf spasm and hunch over, like he'd just been stabbed, and that was all he could take. He began crying and shivering, knowing it was silly but not being able to stop. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..." he whimpered, not even sure why he was apologizing. Thorin shushed him and held him tighter.

"Never be sorry, _azyungel_. I regret not a single moment of our lives together. I only wish I had come sooner to your house." Bilbo snorted in spite of himself.

"You wouldn't have liked me very much, as I've told you each time you've said such a thing. I'd have probably been quite crashingly rude. You came at exactly the right time, as I've told you. I wouldn't have been able to deal with the idea of a dwarven lover if I were younger, certainly not a male one; I could barely deal with it when you did arrive. I spent many a sleepless night over you, Thorin son of Thrain. Much earlier and if that young, conflicted, eminently proper young hobbit that I was were to be confronted with a strong, hairy, quite attractive dwarf... well, I'd have thrown you out and probably drowned myself for thinking about anything improper." He smiled wistfully at Thorin in the final reddish rays of the day. In that light, despite all the intervening years, he could still see the dwarf that appeared one night at his front door, throwing him into a flustered panic without quite knowing why. He reached up and smoothed back a strand of shining white hair from Thorin's temple. "I don't know what comes... after. I don't suppose anyone does. But if I can, I will wait for you, Thorin. I always heard that we go to be with the Green Lady, but I will find my way to you if it's possible. I want you to know that." He was immediately almost crushed in a frantic embrace.

"I can't imagine life without you, _ghivashel_. And you will be there with me in Mahal's halls, I know it. If he could take an elf for Narvi, surely he will take a hobbit for me. Even death cannot separate a dwarf from his One. So we are taught." Thorin breathed deeply, nose thrust into Bilbo's wispy curls. "Balin will be with Bur again; the thought is all that has kept him able to function. Dis will be with Vili. I will be with you. Forever." Dampness in his hair was the only indication of Thorin's tears. "I just... don't want to wait."

Bilbo didn't like the sound of that. "Thorin... now you listen to me." He grabbed his husband by the ears and turned his head, staring into the pale blue eyes that reminded him so strongly of the flowers of his childhood. "First of all, I'm not dead yet. Secondly, if you do anything stupid to die sooner, I will be extremely angry with you. And you don't want me to be angry with you forever, do you?" A teary laugh was his reward. "Remember this. You will outlive me, and that's fine... I will wait. I'm not in a hurry, because you are a good, strong king and these dwarves need you. I'm not jealous of them. They can have you until it's time, because then I get you forever, and that's enough for me. Alright?" Thorin smiled, a warm, open smile that made Bilbo's old heart feel thirty and joyful again. If Bilbo could engrave that picture of Thorin in his mind, he would; that image would guide him through any troubles. He could fight a balrog if he must, knowing that a smile like that was waiting for him somewhere.

"As you say, my heart." Bilbo expected him to continue, but after a moment Thorin just turned back to look off into the distance. They sat quietly together, looking out into the final light of the evening. Things were starting to darken and the first stars were twinkling into view above them when Thorin squinted into the distance. " _Azyungel_..." he murmured. Bilbo looked at him, then where he was looking. "The sky is clear, but what is that darkness on the horizon? It looks like a cloud, but it hangs awfully low to the ground." Bilbo stared, but his old eyes could only see a smudge, less than Thorin. He shook his head.

"I can't see..." he began, but a cold feeling in his heart told him what it likely was. "Oh dear," he said softly. "I think... Thorin, I think we should go back inside and get Dis and Kili to leave as soon as possible. I can't see anything, but my gut tells me that is likely the army we've been waiting for."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nori arrives with late news, Dis is notified of scheduling changes, the council is presented with several interesting things to consider, and one of the enemy's secret plans comes to light.

"You mustn't strain yourself. I will carry you, _ghivashel_." Thorin's voice was determined. Despite their recent moment of closeness, the hobbit had to chuckle at his own aggravation. Bilbo was consistently amazed at how he could love Thorin so much and simultaneously be ready to strangle him at times.

"You will do no such thing." The hobbit picked his way back down the garden path to the door and stepped into the mountain. The night air was blowing on his back, chilling his bones, but he was determined to make it back to the Consort's Chambers on his own two feet. Thorin acted like he would ignore the hobbit and moved behind him, but stopped at Bilbo's voice. The hobbit brandished his cane at his husband and said "If you try to pick me up, I won't be the only one limping back to my rooms, Thorin Oakenshield, and you will be sleeping somewhere else. If you think this recent diagnosis is going to be a good excuse to ignore my wishes, you'll be deeply disappointed." The hobbit turned back around and arched one sparse white brow at the aggravated sigh from behind him, but he felt no hands on his waist. Nodding once sharply, he continued down the passage. "And come around beside me instead of loitering behind me, you make me think I'm about to have my coin purse stolen." Thorin stepped up alongside his husband, scowling furiously.

"You are undoubtedly the most difficult hobbit Javun ever produced," he grumbled. Bilbo just chuckled.

"Oh dear, sweet, sheltered Thorin, having only met two of us, you have no idea just how cantankerous hobbits can be. Pray you never find out how wrong you are. If all my stories of my family and the rest of the Shire for all these years haven't convinced you, there's nothing I can say now. But," Bilbo said, glancing over at his husband, "we are running short of time and need to discuss this army. If they are close enough to be seen from the shrine, that means they're likely on this side of the Anduin. The vanguard will be here within the week if they're moving on wargs; in two, if they're on foot. We need to get Dis and Kili out of the mountain tomorrow morning, and we need to get them to pack tonight. How much of a guard do you want to send with them?" The chilly night air had made Bilbo's ankles hurt, and he cursed silently as he limped down the passage with the support of his cane but he would never admit it to Thorin.

"They need at least ten soldiers, and a commander as an escort; perhaps I'll send Dwalin. I trust him to keep them safe, and sending the captain of my guard will reinforce the gesture."

No sooner had they reached Bilbo's door than Nori's voice interrupted them, startling both king and consort. Thorin swore and reached for the axe he wasn't carrying. "There you are!" The spymaster said, slipping out of shadows Bilbo would have sworn couldn't hide a flea. "Sorry to intrude, but a raven arrived with reports at sunset and..."

"There's an army on the way. Yes, we've seen it." It was petty, he knew, but Bilbo cherished the moments he could surprise Nori; he strongly suspected the reverse was also true. The slender dwarf's eyebrows were almost in his star-shaped hair. Thorin's amused snicker didn't help matters in the least. "Also, while you're here, Dis and Kili have decided to follow the council's recommendation and go as emissaries to the Iron Hills." Nori's eyebrows crept even further up before crashing back down again, and now he was snickering as well.

"I have no idea how you managed to convince them of that," he began, but then cast a wary glance at Thorin before any of the less-flattering thoughts he might have could cross his lips. "At any rate, that's interesting news. The ravens said that there are too many orcs to be counted, which isn't surprising; they aren't good with numbers. The reports they carried were a bit more worrying; our lead scouts estimate their numbers at between nine and eleven thousand orcs, with at least three thousand goblin auxiliaries. Mahal alone knows how they winkled the goblin king out of his hole, but he is leading the charge on some sort of giant war-cart drawn by armored trolls. More bothersome yet, they have at least two if not three hundred stone trolls with them armored for war, marching under some sort of magical cloud of darkness summoned to keep out the sunlight. A group of men who seem to be sorcerers are on another cart pulled by horses, doing some witchery to produce the cloud." Thorin's face was drawn down in a brutal scowl, but Bilbo felt so faint he might fall over. Nori cut his eyes at the hobbit. "We looked for the sorcerer in the wrong place, it seems... we feared him at our gates, when he was rousing our enemies against us."

"Too many but still not enough," Thorin grumbled, looking side to side like an enemy might jump out of the shadows and attack, "why are they coming? That's more orcs and goblins than should exist in the world after Azanulbizar, but why? Even if they brought a thousand trolls, they have no hope of getting through our gates." Bilbo motioned at the door and they all went inside. The hobbit rang for tea, which Thorin upgraded to wine for himself. Another servant was dispatched to find Dis, yet another to track down Dwalin and tell him he was needed in the Consort's Chambers.

"Do they display any standards? The White Hand, perhaps?" Bilbo asked. "I wonder if this is our enemy finally showing himself." Nori shook his head in puzzlement.

"No, the Goblin King has a war pole with the heads of anyone he considered important enough to display, but there are no banners, just legions and legions of orcs. But there's worse news, Thorin." Nori looked down. "The general of the army is a pale orc named Bolg. Bolg... son of Azog." Thorin said something truly foul in Khuzdul and turned pale, breathing heavily. The hobbit flinched, worrying that his husband might break the furniture. He could have cheerfully strangled Nori, who knew better. In the fifty years of their marriage, Bilbo had learned that any mention of the orc who had killed Thorin's grandfather and brother in front of him was dangerous even at the best of times. The king had a particular madness about it; there were times when he would just grimace and move on, and other times (seemingly with no rhyme nor reason) where it would send him into a towering rage. Of even more concern was that it seemed to be gradually worsening. He hoped Nori knew what he was doing, because they needed Thorin focused and thinking, not in a fit of unreasoning anger or the gloom that inevitably followed. The dwarves called such battle-scars of the mind Black Thoughts and took them in stride, but Bilbo hated seeing it.

"Thorin." Bilbo had learned that calling his name softly sometimes snapped him out of it. He walked over and wrapped his arms around the shivering king. "I'm here, Thorin; you're here with me." He felt Thorin slowly reach up and wrap his arms around him (something he would normally never do with Nori or other non-family members in the room), and bury his nose in Bilbo's sparse, white curls. When he abruptly released his hold and stepped away, the hobbit gave an internal sigh of relief; crisis averted. He cast a covert glare at Nori, who was carefully looking away, demonstrating the typical dwarven refusal to acknowledge behavior in others that might be embarrassing.

"My apologies," Nori said brusquely, "but I thought you would wish to know the foe you faced. That name will be on his lips when he comes to challenge you, so this gives you a chance to armor yourself. As to why they are coming..." Nori shrugged. "Stupidity, maybe? Orcs have never been Arda's brightest, goblins less than that, and trolls are dumber than the average stone. Even in those numbers, they cannot breach the mountain, though they could leave long wounds... for example, they can wreak merry hell on Dale and the areas around us. Bard and his men cannot fortify well enough to withstand such numbers, even with twice the army they have." Nori smiled, but his eyes carried no mirth. "They may simply think to siege us until we starve. We won't, of course, with our storehouses bursting, but if they destroy Dale and the markets, times will be lean for certain until we can rebuild... and convince the merchants it is safe to return." He glanced warily at Thorin, then Bilbo, who motioned impatiently for him to sit.

"They may show no banners, but I'd bet that someone else has stirred this anthill for us." Bilbo drank his tea and refilled his cup from the pot; he needed the stimulant to make his tired brain function, though he knew he would pay the price later as he tried to sleep. "What are we missing, Nori?" The familiar question brought a frown to the face of the spymaster; this was a question they had asked each other over and over to no avail. "These things have to be connected. Infiltrators from the White Hand, whoever or whatever that is; a wraith at the gates, messenger from a half-forgotten evil everyone thought dead and gone; now an army of orcs and goblins, led by an old enemy. It strains credulity to think that they aren't..."

"They are connected." Thorin's deep voice cut into the conversation like an axe. "They must be. Could sorcery breach the gates, or force a way into the mountain?" Bilbo fought the urge to sigh in relief as his husband demonstrated that he was fully back and attentive to the conversation. Nori shrugged, but Bilbo shook his head decisively.

"No," the hobbit said, and grimaced at their inquisitive looks, "... well, not unless it was truly potent, something more than we've seen. I don't think the Nazgul-thing that was here could do it, despite being utterly terrifying. Maybe I'm wrong, but I can feel that those gates have centuries of enchantments layered into them. With the Deep Sight, you can feel the relative power of things, in the same way you can tell the difference in heat between a fireplace and a forge. That ringwraith could destroy an opponent, or even a group, but did not feel... strong... enough to pierce the gates? Or it wasn't the right sort of strength... It's hard to explain. Erebor is no Khazad-Dum, but I cannot think the army that comes would be able to breach those wards. More likely that they would try to bypass them entirely, maybe sneak a force inside the walls like that goblin we found and open the gates from the inside... no wards could shield against that. They could also try to dig through the mountain to get in. Thorin, did Nar find the path used by that goblin to get into the mines?" A scowl was the response, but that said everything he needed. As he was about to respond, the door opened abruptly.

"Why did you send a servant for... oh," Dis burst in but drew up at the sight of Nori. Sighing, she squared her shoulders and just asked "What's happened now?"

" _Namadith_ , you and Kili must pack tonight and leave for the Iron Hills tomorrow. Dwalin and a company of ten will escort you." Thorin said, in a voice that brooked no argument. Dis' intolerance for (anyone else's) ultimatums was well-known, and this was precisely the wrong way to go about things. Bilbo could have bitten his tongue; leave it to Thorin to make her want to argue a point she had already halfway conceded! At her hiss of indrawn breath and plunging brows, Bilbo leaped into the fray.

"Nori has brought word of an army," he said softly, not mentioning their own sight of the force and their covering cloud from the garden. "They will be here in a week or so. The sooner you get to the Iron Hills, the sooner you can get Dain motivated to come to our aid. Erebor needs your help in this, Dis. Nori said our scouts estimate almost fifteen thousand orcs, goblins, and trolls, and while they most likely can't get into the mountain, they can destroy everything between here and Thranduil's borders with that sort of force if we leave them unopposed." Thorin glanced at him in seeming surprise, missing the change as Dis' face went from argumentative to thoughtful. "We may need a relieving force if we are besieged, and the chances of Thranduil coming out of the forest to fight are low." The king's snort of bitter laughter was matched by Dis' grimace, though Nori seemed uncertain.

"That is... not a bad idea," she conceded finally, half-frowning with concentration, "if we attack and you sortie as we hit their line, we can catch them between hammer and anvil. Orcs and trolls panic, and goblins are cowards; we might be able to roll them up like a carpet, no matter how many they've brought." The princess fiddled with her rings, one of the classic signs of Dis being lost in deep thought. "Dain's troops are seasoned, and his boars will go through orcs like a sword through cloth. Fifteen thousand, though... so many..."

"Yes, the Misty Mountains must be wholly emptied from Bundushathur to Gundabad," Thorin said grimly. "Let's hope we can finally end them all and this time without losing half of Erebor in the process. At least they come to our home this time, out in the open, and there's no Durin's Bane waiting in the shadows. They will find us a very thorny fruit to pluck indeed." Bilbo felt uneasy at this statement, and didn't know why. What he did know was that legendary evils from long ago did not appear to threaten wars they didn't think they could win. They were missing something. Sauron had some secret weapon or trick in his pocket they had yet to see; he dared hope there would only be one such, though it was impossible to counter what couldn't be anticipated except through dogged perseverance and blind luck. Before the War of Wrath, Sauron had been the second-in-command of Morgoth, and had controlled all manner of horrors that could destroy them like ants... vampires and werewolves, shadows and dragons, things the hobbit shuddered to think of. What if he had a balrog, or if he had managed to tame that terrible shadow from Sarkhubuland? The hobbit shuddered to think! He tried to force his mind back to the problems at hand, but it skittered away to thoughts of Frodo and his mission. He fought to stuff such concerns back down again; this was not the time for worries about things outside his control.

"Regardless," Bilbo said in exasperation, "the fact remains, there is an army moving towards us. Dis, if you and Kili could hurry, you can get out before even the earliest scouts and outriders appear, and they won't know that anyone got away." The hobbit chose to ignore his forebodings. "The less attention they pay to Dain until his battle boars are at their back, the better." She looked for a moment like she wanted to argue, but turned and seized Thorin in a rough embrace, then Bilbo. Nori looked uncomfortable, but only Bilbo seemed to notice.

"I will go, but if anything happens to either of you, I will come find you in the Maker's Halls myself, and you won't like what happens next," she said, moving to the door. She cocked a sardonic brow at her brother. "Does Dwalin know you're sending him away just before an army arrives? He will never forgive you." Thorin grinned in spite of himself.

"No, I just realized tonight he needed to go, he doesn't know yet. He will be arriving shortly." With one last lingering look, Dis turned and went out again, presumably to roust Kili and have him pack.

To say Dwalin was furious would be an understatement. He raged, he roared, he refused point blank... and in the end, he accepted, as everyone knew he would. The princess and her son could not be allowed to go alone (leaving aside the ridiculousness of Dwalin referring to being escorted by ten crack dwarven warriors as 'alone', Bilbo thought). After almost an hour of shouting (and why, Bilbo wondered for possibly the millionth time since entering the mountain, must there always be shouting involved?) Dwalin finally grumbled his way out of the Royal Quarter to pack and arrange the escorting troops to his satisfaction. The hobbit suspected that the barracks would be a noisy and unpleasant place to be until the next day's departure, and was delighted to be well away from all the confusion. The dwarves had a saying that roughly translated to 'a breeze in the Royal Quarter is a storm among the servants' and he knew from personal observations that this was so; he suspected a Dwalin-shaped tornado was about to strike the barracks and he spared a thought for the troops. Just when Bilbo finally thought he and Thorin would get to go to bed, the door burst open to reveal a distraught Kili who had to be comforted all over again that he wasn't being exiled, that he wasn't being separated from his brother for any nefarious reasons, that he was loved... By the time they finally got the young prince comforted and safely back out the door, it was almost midnight and Bilbo was falling asleep in his chair. He barely protested when Thorin lifted him carefully and carried him to his room, cradling the aged hobbit as tenderly as he would a precious jewel.

=

The next day was upon them sooner than either of them were prepared to face. Bilbo barely remembered to take his medicine from Oin before it was time to bid farewell to Dis and Kili. He was still grimacing from the taste when he and Thorin left their rooms; even the sweet porridge and tea at breakfast couldn't cut through the bitter, astringent flavor of whatever herbs were in the mixture. In light of his recent diagnosis, he decided against going down to the gates with Thorin. It was a laborious trip down and an even harder climb back to the Royal Quarters for Bilbo, and Thorin's smile of pride at his husband's concern for his own condition was a reasonable compensation for missing out on what what sure to be a chaotic scene. Bilbo bade farewell to mother and son in the Royal parlor that was in front of Thrain's old quarters before they departed, a mirror of his first day in the mountain that sent a chill up his spine. Fili's misery was apparent, but it almost broke his heart to see Kili looking so grown-up and mature. He whispered last minute instructions to his nephew, telling him that he was trusting him to take care of his mother and not get up to any of his normal mischief, but the hobbit could tell that the prospect of being separated from his brother for the first time was weighing on the young prince. Bilbo made a mental note to remember to take closer care of Fili, because he could read the context of Kili's comments and knew that the older brother was just too proud to express the concerns he was hearing now from the younger... and it would never occur to Thorin.

Dis and Kili's party had barely headed out before the Council was requesting to meet ahead of schedule to discuss the army's preparations for the coming war. General Mun wanted to go over early reports and Nar wanted to discuss the results of the evaluation of the western slopes, scribes had reports of how many rocks and ballista bolts and barrels of naphtha had been set aside... Thorin had barely opened the council before the arguments began. Strangely, Nar was nowhere to be seen. Within half an hour on the Consort's Throne, Bilbo felt his head swimming. Despite the dizziness, he was pleased that Oin's medicine seemed quite effective; he hadn't had a single chest pain all day. He caught Fili glancing at him with concern, so the hobbit assumed that his face exhibited some of his discomfort; he didn't dare look at Thorin. He was still schooling his face when Fili interrupted the Council.

"What of our allies?" The blond prince looked calm, beaded braids immaculate, mustache and beard carefully arranged, and no sign of the distress that he must be feeling to be separated from his brother. The other councilors looked at each other and him in surprise, but Thorin grunted and nodded. "Dale could be destroyed. Will we leave Bard and his people to certain death?" A murmur rose in the chamber.

"A noble thought," came the smarmy voice of Irin, still Lord of Provisions after fifty years despite the best efforts of both king and consort. Just hearing him speak was enough to make Bilbo's gut clench. "Surely, my prince, your kind heart is a beacon of justice to all. Sadly, our stores could not stretch as far as..."

"He raises a good point." Thorin interrupted. Irin subsided, though not without a sour glance; his political power had waned quite a bit since his sponsor Grar had been sent to his death fifty years ago, and even more when his fellow troublemaker Shar Building-Lord had been unceremoniously expelled following an exhaustive audit of his accounts in the first year of Thorin's reign. Sadly, Irin's stranglehold on Provisions was as tight as ever. "Even if neighborly kindness isn't sufficient to motivate us to help them, the future of our commerce should be. If Dale is destroyed, it will be bad; if its people are slaughtered, it will be worse by far. We can rebuild a city faster than we can persuade new men to settle there, and new men will not have the network of trade contacts with the East and South that currently make our kingdom so prosperous. It would be a shame if you weren't able to get your pipeweed and silks, Irin," the king said with a smile that never reached his eyes. Bilbo sighed; he knew sooner or later they would pay for that comment. Twitting the sleazy Lord was a constant temptation, but always had a way of working out poorly. Irin just knew too many people in charge of too many key systems in the mountain. Fili shot Thorin a grateful glance as whispers passed between the council members. "Could you work up some projections for how much burden it would place on our stores if we had to shelter the whole population of Dale? I believe the last census put them at between seven and eight thousands; also, see if we only had to support four thousands, which would be the women, children, and old people, leaving the fighting men to defend the city." Irin scowled, then brightened; Bilbo would have bet any amount that the councilor had just thought of a way to hide some complicated graft in the process. The figures he produced would be wildly inflated for sure, but they wouldn't be completely inaccurate... Irin was skilled at walking that knife edge, and despite all his many failings he was tremendously skilled at his job. At his murmur of agreement, Thorin nodded.

"Where could such a group of men be housed?" asked Sharek, the formidable dwarrowdam in charge of Finance.

"The old festival halls on the second deep are empty, and could be cleaned and the lamps re-lit," Fili said. Bilbo realized with a shock that this was no passing fancy; clearly the prince had taken a real interest in this project. "The kitchens there could be quickly rebuilt for the size of men at minimal expense; though shoddy by Erebor standards, they are certainly at least as good as the kitchens in use in Dale, with the added benefit that they can't burn down." The councilors chuckled, and Bilbo admired the touch of humor (though the dwarven habit of finding amusement in the tragedies of others still eluded him after all these years.) Nevertheless, it was well done. "The supply halls that connect to the storehouses could be guarded, to keep wandering children out of our supplies and ease deliveries of food," the prince said with a nod to Irin, who got a thoughtful look, "and we could assign runners to aid them in finding what they needed, which would let us keep an eye on them for any trouble without having to obviously post guards to keep them contained. Surely we can't have them wandering the mountain," he said, speaking the worry that was clearly on every mind at the table. Another wave of whispers and rustling parchment went through the room.

"Have you spoken to Bard of this?" Thorin asked. At Fili's emphatic denial, Bilbo exhaled quietly. His nephew truly was growing up. The Fili he had first met would have fallen into something like that without a thought for the political ramifications, and there would be a mess to clean up. Thorin's face radiated pride as he nodded. "Good. We will consider it. Even so it was well thought out." Praise from his uncle the king always made the young prince blush, but he simply nodded and leaned back, appearing calm to anyone who didn't know him. "Irin, the enemy is practically on our doorstep. My apologies for the rush, but if we are to do this, it must be swiftly. Can you have those estimates by tonight?" The old dwarf nodded, already clearly lost in thoughts of how he was going to make it happen. "Excellent. Unless there is other business..." Nar burst into the chamber, slowing as he reached the door, but still a bit out of breath. Thorin glowered. "So glad our stonekeeper could join us," he said with a glare. "Even if we were..."

"Beggin' your pardon, Majesty, my lords," Nar said, nodding at Thorin and the council, "but I've some news. We've found the tunnel the goblin used to get in. It comes in through an old cave system on the west face of the mountain, and the wall we sealed it with had been carefully dismantled. No question but that it was a scout; we also found a cache of supplies outside, and a scent-stick it had used to mark the trail for others. Mines punched through into the caves five levels down, a quarter mile from the junction where we caught the little cockroach. Would have been invisible to stonesense, if one of the trackers hadn't spotted goblin tracks near the caves." Consternation swept the chamber. Aha, Bilbo thought. This is one of the enemy's surprises we didn't know about that we can address.

"Can you collapse the caves?" Bilbo asked suddenly, surprising everyone. "Or better yet, set them to collapse when we wish?" Nar looked puzzled, though General Mun's brief look of surprise was swiftly replaced with one of bloodthirsty glee. "If the enemy sends a force into the caves in hopes of coming up through the mines and opening the gates, wouldn't it be a shame if the cave fell in on them?" Nar grinned. He thought for a moment.

"Aye," he said slowly. "It would be a dance, though; the cave passes under a solid layer of quartz-bearing granite, and tryin' to get that to shear proper to fall where you want it would be a hard go. That cave's a good ways off from the settled parts of the mountain, though it cuts close to the iron lodes on the west slopes. With charges, though, we could..." Bilbo hated to cut Nar off but he knew all too well how any dwarf, let alone a stonekeeper, could get lost in geology for hours.

"Can you do it in two days?" Bilbo interrupted. The keeper stopped, thought for a moment, and nodded. Thorin grinned, as did most of the council. The hobbit glanced over at his husband. "What think you, Majesty? Shall we prepare a welcome for some uninvited guests?" 

Thorin nodded decisively. "Indeed. Nar, see to it. We will keep troops at the junction to keep the goblins out of the mines, but if they get a little combat in, I don't think they will mind. We want as many as possible in the passage before it comes down. Each goblin, orc and troll we kill with rocks is one less to worry about at the gates." Nar nodded and turned around with little ceremony and left, not waiting for Thorin to dismiss him and ignoring the scandalized whispering of the councilors. "Unless there is other business, I suggest we adjourn. We all have much work ahead of us, and little time." The king stood and they all did as well, with Bilbo moving over to Fili and indicating that he wanted to walk with him. Thorin gave him a surprised look, but came to join them.

"Fili, well done. I doubt even your mother could have presented that information more succinctly, or as well," Bilbo said softly. "Walk me back to my rooms, if you please. Stay for dinner, if you can. I feel like I haven't seen much of you lately." Thorin took his other arm without a word, though he looked vaguely put out.

"Thank you, Uncle Bilbo," Fili said with some slight embarrassment. "Sorry to just blurt that out in council, but... I worry about Bard's people. They will bear the worst of what's coming." Thorin's proud expression practically lit up the hallway.

"Never apologize for caring. That is the mark of a good king," he said. "To be concerned about others is admirable, but to do it in a way that guards the interests of your own people while helping those others as well... that shows that you will rule with a true heart. Today you acted like not just a good ruler, but a great one." Bilbo couldn't help but smile at the sheer dwarvishness of this sentiment, but agreed. Fili looked like he was about to start floating on air; it was rare that Thorin praised him so wholeheartedly.

"I... thank you, Uncle Thorin." The uncertain young dwarf Bilbo had first met was visible again briefly as Fili blushed and looked down, and the hobbit felt his spirit swell with love for his nephew, one of three sons of the heart he never dreamed of having but now couldn't imagine living without. Fili, Kili and Frodo were all as different from each other as they could be, but Bilbo loved each of them deeply, fiercely, and unconditionally. He only hoped that the one furthest away would survive his ordeal, and that there would be a kingdom left for the other two to inherit after the coming troubles.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo tells Fili many things the prince doesn't want to hear, Nori tells the pair more news, and Thorin offers comfort at the end of the evening.

Once the group had gotten back into the Consort's Chambers (and the fact that they were still called that after Bilbo and Thorin had been living together in them for fifty years testified to the intransigence of dwarves better than anything) Bilbo pulled Thorin aside to their bedroom on the pretext of changing out of his court clothes, leaving Fili sitting in front of the fire and awaiting the servants who were bringing dinner. When the door was closed, Bilbo came over and whispered "Thorin... I need to speak with Fili alone after we eat." The king's eyes widened as he realized what the likely topic was. He started to protest, but Bilbo took his hand and kissed the knuckles, clutching it tightly. "Please don't. I can't... Thorin, I can't face saying those things with you in the room without crying, and if I cry, then you will cry, and between us we'll terrify the poor boy." He tried for a joking sound to his voice, and realized how badly he had failed as it came out of his mouth. Thorin looked at him in mild horror, and Bilbo cursed and glanced down. "I'm trying to put the best face on it, my love, but I'm no happier about it than you are. I just..." Bilbo leaned into his dwarf and Thorin's arms automatically encircled him. He sighed softly and leaned on the sturdy strength of his mate, always grateful at times like this for the solidity of Thorin's chest and the unshakeable sense of safety he got from his husband's presence. "To be honest, I'm terrified, I'm tired, and I wish I'd never gone to see Oin. I know that's silly," he said, holding up a hand to forestall the slew of objections he could see behind the pale blue eyes, "but it makes sense to my heart, not my mind."

"To know is better than not knowing," Thorin said in a low rumble, and Bilbo wondered which of them needed to be convinced more. He nodded, because that was what was expected of him, though the unfairness of all of it burned at him like a hidden flame. "I will go and check on Irin's figures. That should take an hour or so. Will that be enough?"

Bilbo nodded. "I want you back after we talk for a bit, because he has to know you know about it too. He's going to have to replace me when..." Sturdy fingers rested on his lips, stopping him.

"Don't say that. Mahal himself couldn't replace you, _azyungel_. Say if you wish that Fili must learn your duties, say that he must try to act in your role, but never say that he can replace you. If Durin's wife Dar had been the equal of you, my people would govern all of the world. You cannot be replaced." Thorin leaned down and kissed each eyelid, Bilbo's nose, and his mouth, a gesture he had started in the first year they had been married. The melancholy rush of emotions that filled Bilbo's heart defied description when he realized that the day would arrive when he might never experience that again. He fought back tears and clutched at Thorin like a lifeline, trying to stick to their familiar habits.

"Silly old dwarf! Such ridiculous flattery, you... you..." Bilbo lost his place in his pretended huff, staring into those soft crystalline blue eyes. Suddenly he was weeping like his heart was breaking (and it was, he thought bitterly, which didn't help one whit). Without a word, Thorin picked him up and laid him on the bed, ignoring how Bilbo swatted at him when he did so, then stretched out next to him, continuing to hold him. After only a few minutes, Bilbo was done crying, though the sadness gripping him was overwhelming. He stroked the strong hand attached to the arm laid across him. "Oh Thorin, what are we going to do?"

"The best we can, _azyungel_. The best we can," was all Thorin could reply. They lay there for a moment and Bilbo remembered that he had left Fili sitting outside... how long ago? Horrified, he struggled upright, ignoring Thorin's attempts to get him to lie still.

"Fili! Gods! I just left him sitting out there!" Bilbo threw off his court clothes in a panic, putting on more comfortable coat and short trousers. Thorin was left to pick up the garments, very atypically left strewn around the room, while Bilbo almost fell through the door. "My apologies, we, uh..." Fili was grinning at the hobbit with a totally inappropriate expression.

"Uncle, please don't tell me what was going on in there," Bilbo was mortified for a second, then realized he would rather that assumption than confess the real issue. If only that were true, or even possible, he thought. What I wouldn't give for one more night with Thorin as it used to be! Fili had been watching his face as he had these thoughts, and snickered like a naughty fauntling. Bilbo smiled sadly and patted the young dwarf on the arm. As always when seeing his nephew, he lived up to his role of doting uncle by thinking 'didn't he grow up to be handsome!'. When Bilbo had met them, Dis' boys were in the dwarven equivalent of their awkward tween years, not quite comfortable in their bodies and capable of the most amazing displays of clumsiness imaginable, despite the martial training that they had received for decades. Fili had grown into his strong features, though, and with his golden hair, naturally tanned golden skin, and shining blue eyes, he drew every eye in the room... so long as those eyes weren't dwarvish. His pale hair was considered ugly by dwarves, and his gorgeous skin was thought to be highly suspect since it made it look like he spent a great deal of time in sunlight, something dwarves considered slightly perverse. The blue eyes of the Durin clan were widely complimented, but Bilbo knew that Fili considered himself to be rather ugly, truly a tremendous tragedy. If Fili had been born a hobbit, he would have been trouble on two feet and probably sowed chaos through all the farthings of the Shire, and gauging from the reaction he got in Dale from the human women, the same was true there. Bilbo had even caught a few visiting elvish diplomats giving the prince admiring glances, and if that wasn't a scandal to rock all of Erebor in the making, he'd eat his waistcoat with no salt! He hoped fervently that Fili would find his One and that they would finally make him see how stunningly beautiful he truly was. But that wasn't why they were there, he reminded himself.

"It wasn't what you think, and don't be cheeky," was all Bilbo said, and steered the conversation into safer waters. Thorin came out and they ate. Bilbo complimented Bombur's latest chicken and spiced mushroom confection without being able to eat very much since his stomach was a bundle of nerves. After a winter dessert of stewed dried apples with a rich vanilla sauce that the hobbit picked at, the king made his excuses and left. Fili watched the king leave with a strange expression, then turned back to Bilbo with a guarded look more appropriate to the council chamber than the hobbit's private rooms.

"I'm surprised Uncle Thorin left," Fili said with a suspicious glance. "Uncle Bilbo... This isn't something else about me getting married, is it?" Straight to the point without any hesitation, Bilbo thought. In spite of himself, he had to admit he was proud of his nephew all over again; that couldn't have been easy to say without flinching.

"No, nothing like that," the hobbit said, patting Fili's hand. "I just... thought we should talk. Help me over to the chairs." A moment of relief washed over Fili's face, but then concern reappeared as the hobbit tried to smile. By the time they were settled and the servants had cleared the table, Bilbo decided he might as well get into it. "Fili... it's time for you to start learning more of the side of things that I've been taking care of for all these years. You've shadowed Thorin, worked with him, learned his methods of doing things, and that's good; you've done a wonderful job. You'll make a strong, capable king. When..." Bilbo swallowed heavily, "when the day comes that I'm not here to help him, though, Thorin is going to need someone to fill my role. Your uncle is an excellent general, but his grasp of politics is less than stellar, as I'm sure your mother has told you." Smiling at Fili, he went on. "Knowing Dis, she's probably told you at least twice a week and at the top of her voice. Thorin will need a diplomat, and someone who can think deeply about the consequences of actions that seem innocuous enough on the surface but will lead to problems later on. Your proposal today about the festival halls showed that you already understand that sort of thinking." A moment of pride flickered on the prince's face, but then he grew serious.

"You're not going anywhere though, right? This is just for training me to be a good king, isn't it?" Fili's voice cracked, sounding for a moment like that young dwarf Bilbo had met so many years ago. The hobbit opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Come on, he scolded himself, you've been called Bilbo Silvertongue for fifty years and you can't even speak? Shameful. But Fili's stricken expression stripped the words from his lips. The prince pressed "You're not, are you? Uncle Bilbo?"

"Not right this minute, no. But... I... the truth is, I'm not well." He took a moment to take a sip of his tea and try to compose himself. "Fili, I'm old, very old for a hobbit. My body is just... giving out. I just got some bad news about my health, and, well, I was told that I can't keep doing what I had been. My heart just won't take it. And Thorin needs you, Fili. He needs all the help and support that..." The golden-haired prince wasn't hearing a thing he was saying, Bilbo realized. The wretched look and clenched hands told a story of grief that the hobbit knew all too well. Before he knew it, Fili was kneeling in the floor beside Bilbo's chair, hugging him so tightly he could feel his old bones creaking. "Oh Fili," the hobbit sighed, stroking his nephew's shining braids. "My golden prince, I'm so sorry. It comes to all of us, sooner or later, I'm afraid. But please don't do this, you'll make me cry." Despite the hobbit's words, Fili only held on tighter, and Bilbo felt tears seeping through his shirt.

"You can't, Uncle Bilbo, you can't die... We need you! Oh Hammer of Mahal, without you the whole family will fall apart. Uncle Thorin will fall apart! Even worse, _amad_ will kill Thorin or the other way 'round, and Kili and I have lost too many people already!" A look of horror crossed the handsome features. "Durin's beard, is that why you sent _amad_ and Kili away? So..." Bilbo hadn't even anticipated that line of questioning. The hobbit patted the broad shoulders before him comfortingly.

"Good heavens, no, Fili! The two things weren't related at all. They are sent to the Iron Hills for precisely the reasons we presented to the council... plus one, perhaps. It is a military matter; it is also a diplomatic gesture. It's just also that... well, if something unexpected should happen, there are family members somewhere other than here. Nobody ever expects their impregnable fortress to fall, but it never hurts to have backup plans just in case something goes wrong." The hobbit looked down at the the turned cuffs of his coat, running his fingers along the elaborate stitching. As Consort, even his knock-about clothes were richer than the formal wear of most in the mountain. "But I'm shocked you would think I would direct business of state for something as trivial as my own..." The word health died on his lips as he took in the mulish expression on the prince's face. He had already been shouted at quite enough by various people for such statements, so perhaps he would just keep silent. "At any rate, it will help to have them there, not least because they can mobilize Dain's troops and come to our aid at the head of an army if needed." With a heavy sigh he said "And I am very much afraid it will be needed, if the numbers we are hearing are correct."

Fili looked up at him with a quivering lip, so much the image of the young dwarf Bilbo had met just before his wedding long ago that the hobbit felt his heart clench. "I don't care about the army or troops or any of that. I care about you, and I want you here forever. You're the thing our family was missing and we didn't even know it until you arrived. We won't survive without you!" His eyes welled up again and the heavy blond head fell back into Bilbo's lap.

Bilbo stroked the elegant court braids and made soothing noises. "That's enough, Fili my lad! Stop this, or you'll have me crying too, and won't that be a sight for Thorin to come back to! Us sitting here in a soppy puddle with nothing resolved would be a poor showing for us both. Up you get, come on now," and Fili finally stood up from where he had been kneeling. "I'm not dead yet, thank you very much! Funny enough, I told your uncle the same thing not long ago." Bilbo sighed deeply again, looking at the fire where it flickered across the room. "To tell you the truth, I didn't tell your mother because... well, because I wasn't strong enough to face it. Doesn't make me sound very brave, I suppose, but there it is. If I'd told her, she'd have mothered me into oblivion and she would never have gone to the Iron Hills... and we need her there with Dain. Whatever happens with me, Erebor needs Dain's help, we need his troops, and we definitely need as much support as we can get from as many places as we can get to help us drive off every orc, troll and goblin in the north of the world." A tiny, melancholy smile crossed the hobbit's face. "As for your uncle falling apart... he'd do well not to do so. I've already told him that too many people depend on him for him to be too ridiculous."

"Ridiculous?" Fili's face was aghast. "Uncle..." Bilbo held up a weary hand.

"Alright, my boy, alright, I know. What am I supposed to say? I haven't spent more than a night or two away from your uncle in fifty years; even if I'm in Yavanna's garden I will be miserable without him. I freely admit that I would fall apart if he died but as king he doesn't have that luxury. My hope is that I will live through this war, and help him rebuild; if not, though, he still has those who need him. I have to believe we will be together again when the day comes that he passes - I can't bear this otherwise. But I need you to keep an eye on him, and if he starts acting erratically, I expect you to find a diplomatic way to remind him that I would expect better. He won't listen to your mother, because neither of them even hear each other any more, but he will listen to you. And please remind him that if I have to come back and haunt him, I will be very upset!" Fili stared at his uncle, clearly not sure whether to be frightened or laugh; it was evident he believed that if anyone he knew was capable of such a feat, it was Bilbo. Finally he gave a tremulous laugh, wiping his eyes, and the hobbit smiled. "There's my golden prince. I am truly sorry to spring this on you, but I've been a fool I suppose, and now we're out of time. If I'd been sensible about it, I'd have realized when I turned eighty that this day would come and I would have planned better, but that's water under the bridge, as we hobbits say. Nevertheless, your uncle is going to need a diplomat more than ever in the coming years, and I need to use the time I have left to polish your skills. Now, tell me more about this plan of yours to protect Bard's people in the lower festival halls." With that, the hobbit steered the conversation back into safer (or at least less emotional) waters. Fili played along, but his occasional concerned glances told Bilbo the topic wasn't really put to bed.

When there was a knock at the door, followed by the sound of it opening, Bilbo turned fully expecting to see Thorin. Instead, the three-pointed hair of Nori came through the door. The spymaster saw Bilbo and started to smile, but when he saw Fili sitting in the other chair, his smile froze a bit. "My apologies, Highness, I see you are entertaining. Prince Fili, good evening. I'll just..."

"Nori." Bilbo looked at the spymaster, who gave the impression of being poised to flee. "Come in. Tell me." At the spymaster's questioning look, Bilbo sighed. "Fili is going to be working with me for some time to learn the other half of ruling. It's time he knew about all of it. He's done a good job with the skills Thorin can teach him, now it's my turn." At Fili's covert glance at the hobbit, Bilbo gave a minute shake of his head. The hobbit worried to do even that much, since Nori had an almost preternatural ability to detect such things, but he was sure the blond prince was wondering why Bilbo was being so direct about some things and yet evasive about the war-boar in the room. Nori focused closely on Fili, then slowly nodded and eased into the couch, perching on the edge of the seat.

"About time. My prince, it will be a joy to work with you." Nori's knife-edged grin was hardly comforting, nor (the hobbit thought) did it look particularly joyful. "Word comes from your friend in the forest," Nori said to the hobbit with a snicker.

"Thranduil," Bilbo explained to Fili, who looked confused. "Nori delights in giving everyone some obscure title or reference to see if you can keep up. You'll get the hang of it." He ignored the star-haired dwarf's newly sullen expression.

"Fine, ruin my fun," the spymaster grumbled sourly. "At any rate, he sends word that his northern army has engaged with the orcs; they slew a substantial number before they had to retreat. Seems they took the orcs by surprise, and attacked the middle of the force away from the warg riders and trolls. Several hundred slain." Another of Nori's evil smiles. "Sadly, that trick likely won't work again, but he promises to continue to harass them given the chance. So much for the good news." Nori face turned sour, mouth drawn into a thin line. "Now for the rest. A smaller force came out of Dol Guldur in the southern part of Greenwood. It was led by that thing from the front gates. By the time the king knew it was there, they had already joined the main army, and with the sorcery of that whatever-it-is dark spirit thing, he warns that his troops won't be able to do much more. Apologies for the description, but he used some term for it my mouth won't shape." Fili grinned, and Bilbo did as well, though for different reasons. Fili thought it was funny Nori would be at a loss for words; Bilbo knew Nori was playing dumb to trick Fili and made a mental note to remind him that the spymaster spoke several languages fluently, and not to believe his "hidebound dwarf" act. Nori was an invaluable help, but his constant testing of everyone became tedious... perhaps, Bilbo thought, he should warn Fili about that as well.

"Very good," Bilbo said. "Fili, what do you think of this news?" No time to start like the present, the hobbit supposed. The young prince looked aghast at being put on the spot, but rallied.

"Uh..." eyes rolling, Fili was clearly at a loss, but then he found his focus again. "Wait. Nori, you said they came from Dol Guldur?" The spymaster nodded expressionlessly. "How do you think they did such a thing? If they left the forest on the old orc road southwards, they had to swing west and passed directly by the Wood of Lorien. Did the Lady of the Wood not mention them? She is our ally, and surely she wouldn't allow some evil thing to pass unmolested!" Nori's shuttered expression suddenly opened a bit, eyes sharpening, and Bilbo felt a rush of pride, though he took care to keep it off his face for now. Fili continued, squinting a bit as though trying to visualize the geography. "If they passed through the woods to the north, they still had to cross the Gladden Fields; even if the marshes are mostly frozen this time of year, that's not a trip I'd want to take. There's no way they passed through the heart of Thranduil's kingdom to get there. Do we know how they snuck past everyone?"

Nori shook his head slowly, eyes shining with interest. "Not a notion in this world, my prince, but that is an excellent question. No messages from Lorien. Nothing seen by the sentries of Greenwood either, though I'm sure they watch the approaches from the south like hawks, especially when they've closed the eastern borders with their own marsh-gates. Some sorcery, perhaps." Nori shifted in his seat a bit. "It was no large party, from the sound; perhaps twenty or thirty, moving fast under cover of night and sorcery both, could elude the eyes all around." Nori looked at Fili expectantly.

"Thirty is an odd size for a war party. Too many to hide easily, too few to defend against anything but a small patrol. Unless..." Fili was clearly engaged now, wrestling with the puzzle, but Nori seemed to think he was missing something interesting by his expression. Bilbo had his own suspicions, but was content to just sit and watch the two interact. "Unless that group of thirty was all that was left of a larger force." He turned and looked at Nori. "Would any of our ravens go and look to see if there was evidence of a battle somewhere between Dol Guldur and the Gladden? Probably on the eastern banks of the Anduin, because anything that passed beneath the boughs of Lorien wouldn't have emerged again." The spymaster gave one of his signature grins.

"The ravens have already been dispatched, my prince, we should hear soon enough." Fili stared at Nori for a moment, then laughed. Get used to it, Bilbo thought as he gazed fondly at the prince. You will need all your wits to keep up with this one, but he seems to like you, praise to the Green Lady and Mahal both. "I would be glad to report that our enemy isn't getting everything his own way if he left most of another army to fertilize the Gladden, but it's too soon to say if that's just wishful thinking." The spymaster snorted. "Wouldn't discount the Lady of the Wood, though. She's a crafty one, even for an elf."

Bilbo decided it was time to speak. "The Noldor are not known for their tolerance for orcs or for sorcerers," he said with a smirk. "I would imagine this ringwraith would find it a hard passage to force unless his master was there in person. He may have abandoned the rest of his troops and fled north with his high command and left what troops he brought to survive or not. It wouldn't be the first time such a tactic was used by Sauron and the rulers of Angmar. If the Lady of Lorien sent news, it should be here soon. I expect we'll hear something tomorrow or the next day." Nori nodded once, sharply.

"Orcs are easily replaced; generals are not. Like a lizard leaving its tail behind while the head runs off in safety. I'd believe it." Nori stood, bowing to Bilbo and Fili in turn. "That was all the news I had this evening, but I will let you know what the ravens find when they return, or of course if there are any messages." As he was turning, the hobbit spoke again.

"Let us both know, please." He gave a half-smile at Nori's inquisitive look. "As I said, Fili must learn. I mean to train him quickly and thoroughly." Nori nodded with a calculating look at the prince, bowed again, and left, passing Thorin in the door.

"What news?" the king said as he came in the door. As they explained the news Nori had brought, Fili was quiet, staring at Thorin and Bilbo together where they sat on the couch as though painting a picture in his mind. Bilbo, seeing this, immediately began peppering the blond prince with questions, getting him to explain the ramifications to Thorin as he saw them. The king's eyebrows twitched, but he listened with due care until the theorizing was complete. Finally he changed the subject. "I met with Irin. His numbers are grossly overstated, of course, but even with his constant bellyaching it was obvious that we have the supplies to shelter as much of Dale as wishes to hide in the mountain for several months. We're even more fortunate that it's so early we haven't yet put the crops in the fields, though if our guests stay for too long it might be a grim harvest. Fili, tomorrow go to Bard and offer him your plan for his people; he is the king, and they will do as they see fit, but it is your hard work and foresight in it and only right that you should get the credit for it. Take some guards with you when you go, a proper honor guard for the heir to the throne mind you, and then find me when you return."

Fili tried to smile. "Thank you Uncle." He looked mournfully from consort to king, uncle to uncle. "But..." he started, and Bilbo abruptly stood.

"Well, I don't mean to seem rude, and please forgive your old uncle, Fili, but this hobbit is exhausted. I really must bid you goodnight." He went over and pressed his forehead to Fili's. "I'm still here," he said quietly. Fili nodded and sniffled a bit, but bid his uncles goodnight and left shortly thereafter. Thorin came and found Bilbo in his bedroom, where he had retreated after saying his farewells. The hobbit was sitting on the edge of his bed, still wearing his clothes from dinner but staring sightlessly at the floor. Without a word, Thorin walked over and enfolded the hobbit in his arms. After a few minutes, he finally spoke.

From where he had pressed his face into Bilbo's hair, Thorin whispered "You were right to tell him." Bilbo sighed and nodded.

"I know." The hobbit picked at the coverlet with one hand. "He took it very well, considering." Thorin's soft huff of laughter made him look up.

"I doubt that," came the deep murmured reply. "Fili loves you fiercely, and he has lost so many already. I don't doubt that it was a heartwrenching conversation. His looks at you when I came back in told the whole story. But I still say you were right." Strong hands stroked Bilbo's back, soothing him, and he subconsciously leaned back into the sensation. "We all love you. If I could give you the rest of my years, I would in a moment. When the time comes, I will hate waiting to see you again, _ghivashel_. But I am grateful to have you here now. Every minute with you is food for my soul." Thorin's voice sounded a bit thick, and Bilbo knew better than to meet his eyes if he didn't want to burst into tears. He had spent too much of the day crying already. Bilbo wanted to laugh at Thorin's use of a Shire expression, but he was too tired. As they slowly prepared for bed, Thorin turning down the covers and making sure that the sheets were warmed, Bilbo smiled. Food for the soul indeed, he thought. Tomorrow will surely be easier.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo discovers it's not good to hide things from family, Fili discovers that action has consequences, and the army of the enemy finally arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short update, before we take the plunge. Thanks to all of you who have left comments and kudos; you're my motivation to get this done! <3 <3 <3

As the week passed, Oin's medicine helped Bilbo immensely and he fought half-seriously with Thorin several times over his desire to do more. There certainly was a great deal to be done. Bilbo Baggins the hobbit might realize the need to slow down, but the mountain kingdom of Erebor had come to rely on its Prince Consort for a great deal of things, and the flow of visitors to the Royal Quarter was a steady stream each day, seeking the advice or counsel of the king's spouse. Bilbo's prediction to the spymaster proved out; the next evening, an owl arrived bearing a bundle of news from Lorien, including the information that a large force of new previously-unknown type of orcs were destroyed in heavy fighting along the eastern borders of the wood. The general escaped (we know, Bilbo thought sourly, damn the luck). The new orcs were larger, stronger, and apparently immune to any ill effects from sunlight; not, the hobbit grumbled, an innovation that was needed by anyone on their side of the war. Cryptic comments in the missive led the hobbit to think that perhaps Frodo's party had reached Gondor, though of course nothing could be directly said in writing. He hoped that Denethor could help them with their errand, though he knew very little of the man beyond a few diplomatic exchanges - the stewards of Gondor had little interest in dwarves or hobbits, even those who had made a study of the doings of their Numenorean kinsmen of Arnor and Fornost. Most interesting of all, and provoking cursing from Nori, the new orcs were said to have marched under the banner of the White Hand. This was the first formal confirmation that their enemies were in league together, and unwelcome news to all. Even more interesting, Sauron was now spoken of openly as being behind these attacks. The veil of secrecy had been thrown off, and the armies of Mordor were on the march everywhere. Hordes of Southrons and Easterlings filled his ranks, and orcs and other fell beasts were on the move. Bilbo spared a thought for Talshiz the merchant and hoped that he and his family were somewhere safe; no news had reached him from Khand, but he suspected that life in those parts of the world was no better than it was here.

When Fili extended the offer to shelter the people of Dale in Erebor in the coming battle, the King of Dale accepted Fili's offer 'graciously', in the prince's retelling. Seeing the gratitude in Bard's usually grim face when the King arrived to supervise the rehousing made the hobbit think that Fili was perhaps understating the matter. Bard's decision was quickly made to abandon Dale and attempt to rebuild as needed; the king freely admitted that there was no chance his few hundred troops could defend the city walls against the horde that was coming, and they were resettled over the next three days in the lower festival halls. Bilbo didn't go see the long winding train of menfolk pouring into the main gates, but every guard and dwarf was grumbling about it, including all of his visitors. Outsiders in the mountain were seen as a threat by the common folk. Politically, though, Fili's offer was as important as Dis' trip to the Iron Hills, and Bilbo suspected that with this gesture the future king had personally made an ally for life of the House of Girion. Thorin's tiny smile when told of the news hinted that he felt the same. The hobbit knew that his nephew was shaping up to be a fine ruler one day. That didn't absolve Fili of the crime that still made Bilbo so angry he could strangle his nephew.

Fili had sent a letter about Bilbo's health to his mother.

He must have done it the night he found out, directly after leaving Bilbo and Thorin's rooms. Late in the week, a packet arrived from the Iron Hills that was so voluminous the raven almost couldn't carry it. The first indication the hobbit had of any problem was when the servants brought him a thick, sealed letter. The seal marked it as originating with Dis, but the sheer volume of contents gave him pause. What on earth, he wondered, how could Dain's situation possibly be that complicated? When he opened it, after perusing the first page he felt as though his eyebrows might melt off. While the time he had spent with Dis over the years had given him the ability to hear the concern and devotion under the harsh words she used, this letter was a masterpiece of loving abuse. He was not the only one to know the habits of others, either; Dis had scattered her observations of the court of Dain, his military preparations and the political situation in the Iron Hills cleverly throughout the letter so that Bilbo couldn't simply skip any parts of it to bypass the berating. Each sentence had to be read and parsed for meaning, to ensure that he understood the situation clearly, and thus each barb and verbal arrow of displeasure at being sent away without being told that his health was poor found its way to its target. By the time he finally finished reading the nearly twelve pages of elegant, venomous prose, he felt as though he had been whipped like a criminal. As he sipped his tea in exhaustion, Bilbo reflected that this is precisely why the entire mountain feared her, and with good reason. He loved Dis like the sister he had never had, and he knew she would die for him without a second thought; at the same time, he understood why Thorin periodically threatened to have her killed, or strangle her himself. He thought he had made it clear to Fili that he didn't want her to know, but apparently not. At any rate, what's done was done. When Thorin came in from open court an hour or so later, Bilbo was still sitting at his desk staring absently at the stack of parchment.

"You were missed, as always, and every petitioner sent their wishes that you recover quickly. Many were even sincere." Thorin said jokingly, then noticed the pensive look. "What is wrong, my heart? More bad news?" The king asked. Wordlessly, Bilbo passed the letter over. Thorin raised an eyebrow at the thickness of it, then began reading. Within two pages, his face had turned red and then pale several times, and Bilbo finally couldn't help but chuckle at the expressions flitting across his husband's face.

"I've been put in my place most clearly, I'd say," Bilbo sighed. "You needn't read all of it unless you particularly enjoy vituperation... though I admit, she is most impressive at it, and she has truly outdone herself with this one. Eleven and a half pages, and she never repeats herself once." Thorin set the papers down on the desk, clearly attempting to keep hold of his temper.

"If she were anyone other than my sister..." he began in a half-furious, half-apologetic tone, and Bilbo sputtered a laugh.

"Oh Thorin, she does it because she's so worried about me, and I know that. It's flattering in a way. Not many people would care enough to write twelve pages of anything to me, let alone flay me so exquisitely. It simply wears me out to read. Sounds as if Dain's in good form, though, and can march shortly. He should arrive at roughly the same time as the army from the west, give or take a day. Unless you heard differently, the last estimate I heard was that the warg outriders should be here within the week at their current rate of movement." A thought occurred to him. "Did Nar ever get that tunnel properly set to collapse?"

Thorin grumbled a negative. "He's been making excuses for days. You know how he gets; it has to be perfect. I told him this morning that he was out of time, and he either needed to finish it or just drop it now and close the hole; otherwise we'll end up with a mountain full of goblins before he gets it to work." Bilbo cursed under his breath and sighed; he did indeed know exactly 'how he gets' when it came to Nar. When he had been learning some of the basics of stonesense he had suffered through long hours of rants about what the stone wants, how things need to be done and the shoddy work people do that upsets the whole geological formation, and so forth, on and on.

"Did you tell him as Thorin, or did you tell him as the king? And yes, I know quite well how mad he can go when the stone doesn't seem to want to do something."

Thorin scoffed loudly. "He listens to the king less than he listens to me as his friend, wouldn't do any good to send him a formal notice with fancy letters and gilding." The hobbit sighed but knew that his husband wasn't wrong. All dwarves were hard-headed about their particular areas of interest, and Nar was one of the most hard-headed of the lot. He just hoped that the cavern would be finished in time for their uninvited guests. He also didn't put it past the obstreperous Broadbeam to stay and supervise the collapse personally if it wasn't to his satisfaction, and Erebor needed a living Nar much more than it needed a bunch of dead goblins.

"I should go see Bard to see how they are settling in," Bilbo said, then immediately shook his head. "No, perhaps I won't." When he looked up, Thorin was staring at him with a peculiar expression. Clearly his husband suspected he was losing his mind. "Fili has been handling all of it, and doing well I'm told. I'm not going to get involved and second guess him; this is his effort, and I will speak to him about it if I have questions. The last thing he needs at this late date is his meddlesome uncle sticking his nose in it." A malicious smile lit his face. "I know exactly what I will do, though."

Thorin eyed him distrustfully; he knew that look. "And what is that, _azyungel_?"

"I will send for Fili to ask him some questions about Bard's people. And when he arrives..." Bilbo grinned in triumph. "I will make him read this bloody letter. All of it." Thorin's booming laugh practically rattled the dishes on the table.

=

Fili crept around the doorjamb of the Consort's Quarters, looking more like a nervous tween than he had in decades. Clearly rumor had reached him that the Consort was upset with him about something, but he was nonplussed to see a smiling Bilbo waiting for him. The hobbit had heard second-hand that Fili and his brother had long ago agreed that if they had to be in trouble, they would far rather be in trouble with Uncle Thorin than with Uncle Bilbo. The king's idea of punishment was usually direct and brutal, focused on the body... sending them (or in extreme cases, taking them himself) to the training grounds to have the stuffing beaten out of them, assigning them boring manual tasks and the like. Bilbo was much more inventive, focusing his punishments on the mind and teaching much more painful lessons. The hobbit could practically read the blond prince's mind from his face as he realized Bilbo was waiting; Fili straightened up immediately, and changed his somewhat furtive, sidling movement into a confident stride. Very good, my boy, the hobbit thought smugly. We just need to work on your sense of when you're being observed.

"Fili! Come in, have a seat," Bilbo said warmly. "I wanted to ask about how the relocation efforts were going. I hear that all of Dale is now in our lower halls." Bilbo was sitting at his private desk, stacks of paper all around him. Fili sank gratefully into the comfortable chair set nearby for visitors. "Tea?" The prince waved his thanks but declined. He was clearly more excited to have a chance to discuss his project.

"They're doing well," the prince said. "We had some problems with some of the older people not being comfortable because the halls were chilled. We took down some braziers as a stopgap solution and a few of the engineers found where the ventilation had been shut down when the hall was unused for so long, so now they get a good airflow and it's warmer. They also added the halls back into the hot air rotation for the hypocausts. Once the floors were warmed again from the forges, everyone was a lot happier." He leaned back, stretching out and looking very comfortable. Despite knowing what was coming, Bilbo couldn't help but smile at his nephew.

"Well done. Take it from your ancient uncle, heat is welcome to old bones. And the soldiers from Dale have been added to the troop rotations at the gate, I hear? They will fight with our soldiers?" Fili nodded, leaning forward again eagerly. Bilbo smiled in an encouraging manner, surreptitiously pulling the letter forward from the stack it was resting on and setting it in the middle of his desk.

"Yes, they are happy to! We have found the warriors areas with high ceilings for them to train, and I didn't have any problem getting the quartermaster to have his crew take a look at their armor and weapons to offer advice and repairs. All the archers have been moved to the open platform above the gate, around the sides of the ballistas. They..." Fili noticed Bilbo moving papers around and glanced down at the stack. Recognizing the handwriting, he froze and then slumped into himself.

"Go on, please," Bilbo said, smiling warmly. "Though as a word of advice, you might want to be careful with seeming to imply the men of Dale can't take care of their own weapons and armor. Dwarves can be rude, and that's doubly true of soldiers in general, triply true of the quartermasters in particular. And the tall folk are quite touchy about such things." Noticing that Fili had stopped responding, Bilbo looked down and hummed a moment. "Speaking of rudeness, I did have something I wanted you to read, if we're done with Dale for the moment."

"Uncle... I..." Fili's eyes darted left and right, and his expression looked so much like a younger Thorin when trapped that Bilbo had to resist the urge to hug him. He'd made this bed, now it was time to lie in it.

"Actions have consequences, my boy, as I've told you many times. As king, you need to know that. It's only fair you see the trouble you've caused." Bilbo's smile remained, but the warmth had run out of it. "Now, you're going to read this letter, and then we're going to talk. Oh, and I will be grilling you on what you learn, so don't think you're going to skip any of it. We're going to have a nice, detailed chat about Dain's troops and readiness when this is done. Each question you can't answer will get you a chance to read the whole letter again, so pay attention. Then we can talk about how you're going to make up this breach of trust." Sighing with downcast eyes, Fili held out his hand for the letter. Putting on his best 'disappointed' face, the hobbit leaned back and prepared to enjoy the show.

=

Days crept by, and the agony of waiting made tempers short. Bilbo was almost glad he wasn't traveling around the mountain as much. The dwarves had made their peace long ago with the idea that the Consort wasn't a dwarf, though some of the Firebeards still grumbled about it when they were in their cups; in the fifty years he had been in the mountain, Bilbo had come to realize that most dwarves weren't really content unless they were grumbling about something. The big danger for Bilbo these days was that he was more popular than a Scribe when he went out. Everyone wanted to ask him to adjudicate some minor matter or the other when they saw him and it drove him mad sometimes. He could only imagine the fights that were arising daily from the tension of anticipating the arrival of the huge force of orcs. Word had already reached him of squabbles between the human warriors of Dale and their Ereborian counterparts, as well as the rivalry between the dwarven crews for the ballistas and catapults atop the main fortress level and the human archers.

The first sign of the approach of the army was the darkness. The mountain awoke one morning to no sun, just a dull, dreary, leaden sky like a storm was coming. No wind rattled the branches of the trees, just beginning to bud to welcome the coming spring. Not a breath of air stirred. Sounds were eerily flat in the stillness, making it a bit difficult to gauge where they were coming from. The sun was visible only as a dim, white disk in the sky, giving little light and and less heat, though the cloud cover trapped what heat there was. When the first reports of scouts from the advancing army appeared, skulking figures on warg-back appearing in the distance and vanishing again, it was almost a relief. Over the following day, thousands of orcs and dozens of trolls poured into the space between Erebor and Dale like water into a bowl, boiling onto the vast open plain before the entrance to the mountain. They erected no tents, but built enormous fires of whatever wood they could find, fighting amongst themselves by species or clan, setting up primitive camps of war and roasting suspect meat (or so the scouts reported, Bilbo hadn't been to look and doubted his eyes were good enough to make much out anyway). The sorcerers had built a larger fire in the center of the army towards the front of the lines (sadly just out of range of the largest catapults) and were said to be conducting dark rituals around it, sacrificing both orcs and men alike to the flames. Thus far, none of them had tried the defenses of the boulder-strewn fields flanking the main approach to the gates.

Thorin was heartened when he told Bilbo about the reports, though he grimaced at the reports of sacrifices. "They're a rabble," he said cheerfully. "My worries about this weren't high, but now they are even less. They have no combat training at all! Watching them all sloping about, arguing and squabbling as they come, it brings a warm feeling to my heart. This is a mockery of an army. We'll have them cleared shortly." Bilbo wasn't too sure; his sense of foreboding had only grown.

"They may be a mockery of an army, but they're a huge mockery," the hobbit pointed out soberly. "Led by an evil spirit with a team of others to support him. Don't dismiss them so easily, Thorin. As we've been saying all this time, they've got something in store for us that they think will win them the battle. Until we know what that is, we'd be fools to take them lightly. It won't help that they're a mockery if the joke ends up being on us." Thorin snorted but seemed to acknowledge the point, which was all his husband could ask. After all, Bilbo thought, what do I expect? For the king of Erebor to despair and throw up his hands? He has to stay hopeful, and I have to help him. With that in mind, he went on, "And we have tricks they don't know about as well. Dain's army is only a few days march away. The traps and other gifts we hid in the boulder fields haven't been discovered yet, but that will offer them a warm welcome, along with the naphtha kegs from the catapults. Nar will get the tunnel set to collapse on time."

Thorin sighed. "Mahal willing. He's still not finished. 'Very soon', he says." Bilbo made a frustrated noise but suddenly stopped, captivated by the vision before him.

Thorin stood near the fire and the light flickered off him, shining golden in his long white braids and beard. His pale skin shone, and he looked almost like a dwarven spirit than a living, breathing being. Amazing, the hobbit reflected, that after fifty years I can love him more than I did when we married. Truly the garden of our marriage has been a fertile one. The Shire maxim for such a situation was "married like two grown-together trees", but that was only part of it. They knew each other so well by now that they could practically read each other's minds, true, but there was more than that. Bilbo had never seen a couple growing up that had so much basic compatibility, and he wished suddenly that he had more time to go make offerings of thanks to the Green Lady for it. Regardless of what happened with this awful war, or Frodo's mission, or any of the rest, even if the world ended up destroyed in flames, he had been more blessed than any hobbit had a right to be and he was grateful. Every day was a gift. His thoughts were interrupted by yet another messenger, this one from the gate captain; a messenger had arrived from the invading force, demanding a meeting before the gates on the following day at noon. Thorin thanked him and bade him notify Ori as well.

Before the door even closed, Bilbo spoke. "Thorin." Pale blue eyes looked over curiously, and Bilbo braced for the explosion. "I'm coming to the gates for the parley."

"You will not." Thorin said fiercely. Bilbo sighed, sitting down and tapping his feet. " _Ghivashel_ , you know it's not good for you to make long trips, certainly not all the way down to the gates. There's no reason for you to..."

"There's every reason to go." Bilbo met his husband's eyes squarely, resisting the urge to smile at how quickly he went from reflecting on how well they understood each other to arguing. "The people expect me there. Any dwarven consort would be there, and if it were you, you'd have yourself carried from the infirmary to the gates if you had to rather than miss it. I'm going." Thorin would have none of it. He ranted, he raged, and at one point Bilbo instructed him tersely that if he didn't modulate his tone a bit, he would be sleeping in the sitting room. Despite this argument, stubbornness on Bilbo's part and exhaustion on Thorin's won the day. It helped, Bilbo was quite certain, that he was absolutely correct in all the particulars; a dwarven consort would be there. And so will I, swore the hobbit. No matter what happens in the future, I will be there to see the face of my enemy.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A parley is had, terms are exchanged, a fight, a tense night, and a painful awakening. Something must be done, and Bilbo goes off to do it.

Bilbo and Thorin made their way to the parapet, the hobbit wheezing with the painful effort it took to climb the stairs. Together, they looked down on the army assembled in front of Erebor. Fili was already there on the other side of Thorin, gazing out at the forces arrayed against them. A sea of darkness swam before them, the vast army of orcs stretching off into the distance. The sky was grim, thick clouds lowering heavily over the field, and the late morning sun which should be streaming across the stones was reduced to a dim murk, the shadowy white orb barely visible through the haze. The darkness resembled that of a thunderstorm, though the air reeked of rot and sorcery instead of rain. No breath of wind disturbed the oppressive stillness. In the forefront of the assembled troops, a great bonfire was burned with dark robed men circling it, working some witchery that produced enormous columns of smoke, pouring up and reinforcing the clouds already overhead. Stone trolls of the mountains stood in small clumps, looking like hills where they were surrounded by iron-clad orcs. Bilbo felt despair clawing at his mind, though he knew intellectually that all of this military might was still powerless to get through the gates beneath them. There were just so many! Nevertheless, the throb of power was felt through his feet where he stood, even this high above the great gates; those massive slabs of enchanted steel, mithril and stone were a bulwark and a rebuke to the army drawn up in front of the mountain. Teams of goblins and orcs were working to clear the field of boulders strewn to prevent the approach of the main force, but they were discovering traps as they went, fire shooting up from undetectable holes and burning the orcs alive or the teams would suddenly tumble into pits lined with sharp metal spikes. Thorin chuckled at this, but the hobbit knew the king was laughing more from tension than any true good humor. The loss of a few orcs or goblins from this horde were like the loss of a few cups of water drawn from the sea. The only good news of the entire day so far was that Nar had finally finished his work on the collapsing cave. Ori stood unobtrusively nearby, to note down what was said for posterity in his records of Thorin's reign. Bilbo only hoped someone would survive to read them.

Far below the Nazgul came riding up the path to the gates on its gaunt black steed, accompanied by a small party of riders. Beside the ringwraith was a short orc riding a black warg and carrying the standard of the Red Eye, pennants barely moving in the unnaturally still air. Just behind the Nazgul, a giant orc with pale skin rode an enormous warg, both covered in scars. His head was shaved except for a bunch of lank black hair pulled up to the top of his head in a horsetail, and hideous tattoos covered his face. His mouth was so wide it looked like his head was hinged in the middle, and huge fangs could be seen protruding even when his lips were closed. Bilbo knew without even asking that this was Bolg; he looked like Death incarnate. A short figure in the group trundled along on a pony on the other side of the ringwraith, seeming oddly out of place. "Here they come," Thorin said with a sneer. "I suppose it wouldn't be a proper war without the parley. But I'm sure this is all just a huge misunderstanding! Perhaps if we ask nicely they will just go home." On Thorin's brow the Dragon Crown shimmered in the gloom, its cool energy rushing past Bilbo, and the hobbit was glad that Thorin was wearing it.

The hissing voice of the Nazgul sounded, magnified through some sorcery to fill the entire space before the gates. Just the harsh sound of the voice caused chills to run through the hobbit's flesh; so it uses not charm, but pain today, he thought. Hardly surprising, and more in keeping with the spirit of the thing we saw than those false, sweet words at the gate. An echo followed each word, half a beat later, tormenting the ears of the listeners. "Thorin, son of Thrain, styled King Under the Mountain, hear the words of Sauron, called the Great, the Generous, the Master of All," _all_ whispered a sibilant echo afterwards, _all_. "Open your gates to us, and your people shall be unharmed. We wish no quarrel with them." _With them_ , came the echo. Cries of surprise and horror were already coming from the dwarves stationed on the walls. "Hear our terms: that you shall accept Sauron as your liege lord." _Lord_ , came the keening whisper. "That you shall give up your throne." _Throne_ echoed with a wail. "That a tenth of the wealth of your kingdom shall be given, now and each year to come, in tithe of allegiance and friendship to Mordor." _Mordor, mordor_ , and to Bilbo's ear the second echo sounded more like _murder_. "A new ruler shall be appointed in your place, and you and the other kin of Durin shall be allowed to depart from this place, never to return. These are the terms set by my master to prevent war." _War_ echoed as a rumble, the sound of screaming buried in it, and a shout was heard from below the walls as some nameless dwarf could take no more. Thorin nodded where he stood, face like stone beneath the bone crown.

"Your terms are heard, emissary of Mordor. Hear now the terms of Thorin, son of Thrain, of the line of Durin the Deathless, King of Erebor. Deliver to me the head of the orc called Bolg, and the rest of his family, that the line of Azog be ended from this day." A furious bellow came from the pale orc, but the Nazgul merely raised its gloved hand and silence fell again. Thorin grimaced in disgust and continued speaking. "Once those criminals are delivered, you are commanded to take your army and depart, and you shall be allowed to do so unmolested, so long as you cause no harm in your passage. No friends shall you find here. No gold shall you receive here. No quarter shall be given here, to you nor your troops... such as they are. Weapons we have which can slay even such filth as you, dark spirit, should you think to test us." Thorin brandished the Axe of Dain and a brave shout came from all the dwarves watching. "Though you bring the whole sea to fight us, your waves shall break upon this rock and be thrown back. Go back to the Shadow which birthed you; you will find no comfort here. These are the terms I set to prevent war, and your total destruction." Bilbo thought he had seen every face of Thorin Oakenshield in the fifty two years of their time together. He had seen him in the depths of despair, and at the heights of joy. He had seen Thorin laugh like a carefree child, smile like a gentle lover, scowl like a tyrant, and sit grim and stone-faced as a judge pronouncing a sentence of death. He had never before seen his husband like this. Thorin looked like a dwarf lord of old; his carriage was unbowed, standing as strong as a part of the mountain. Never had Bilbo seen as clearly that Mahal had truly made his children from stone. With the Dragon Crown on his brow and the Axe of Dain in his hand, the king was the center of a shining maelstrom of power that throbbed in all directions, drowning out but somehow strengthening the magic of the gates far below. Bilbo felt he might die of pride in his husband. He shivered to his soul, and Thorin's words echoed with truth; he knew that something larger than speech had been offered and heard. In the distance, a rumble and crash signaled what the hobbit suspected was the collapse of the cave system Nar had finished rigging late the night before.

The response was disdainful as the Nazgul's cruel laughter boomed against the stone. Tilting back its head, the shadowed figure screamed its terrifying cry, long and drawn out, wailing until Bilbo thought his nerves would crawl out of his flesh. All around him, faces grew pale and sweat stood out on brows. Even the orcs cowered on their lupine mounts. "Pretty words to seal a tomb. So be it, your deaths shall be neither swift nor pleasant. But before I return to my generals, there is one here who would speak with you." The Nazgul gestured, and the short figure beside him rode forward on its pony, throwing back its hood. An old dwarf sat there, shockingly normal-looking while surrounded by orcs, wargs, trolls and evil spirits. His long white beard was patchy but neatly braided, though his head was shaved short. His clothes were plain but much-mended and he sat his pony with ease, stocky body slouched in the saddle. He looked to be nearly as old as Balin, but not as healthy or as powerful - this dwarf sat hunched over and shrunken in either pain or simple old age. Loose skin on his face testified that he used to be much fatter than he was currently. He looked shriveled, like a dried fruit. At the dwarf's first word, Thorin cursed and swayed.

"Thorin! You look well, more's the pity. Been a while," came the deep voice. Ori gave a brief cry and clutched at the stone, staring in shock out at the field.

"Grar," Thorin said in shock. Bilbo reeled. He had been convinced that Grar was dead; they all had. The previous chamberlain had been Thorin's worst enemy at court, and one with allies all over the mountain, open and hidden. When Thorin took the throne he had been sent to Thranduil's court on a trade mission, in truth a way to get him out of the mountain and away from his allies (and also to keep Thorin from killing him outright). A secondary benefit was using him as a sacrifice, an offering of friendship to the elvenking, who Grar had deeply offended. He was supposed to have been dead fifty years since, stolen by (or fed to) the giant spiders that infested the forest realm. Not a hint of his survival had ever come to Erebor; the hobbit was certain that, no matter what else happened, Nori was certain to be practically incandescent with rage that Grar could be alive and they not have known about it. The old dwarf nodded slowly, drawing out the moment.

"Yes indeed, sorry to be a bit late returning from my errand in the forest, but you know how it goes. Never know who or what you might meet on the road. Lucky me that my friends here saved me from being spider food long ago. Dol Guldur isn't the warmest place, but it's been hospitable enough. Nice to be home again at last, though." The old dwarf grinned, showing a mouthful of broken, yellowed teeth. "You look quite a bit like your grandfather these days. Shame, that. Looks like you will be the last of the line of Durin to hold the throne." The elderly dwarf smiled, and Bilbo remembered that malicious smile from Thorin's first council meeting, so many long years ago. His heart fell. This was precisely the deadly surprise he had feared. Mahal alone knew what secrets of Erebor the former Chamberlain had told the Nazgul and its master. But Grar wasn't done speaking. "You know, I think my friend Bolg here has a formal claim against you. You killed his father, after all. That's a serious thing." Thorin's face was white with fury; the king was shaking where Bilbo pressed against him.

"So you finally turn traitor and show the world what was in your heart all along, you orc-loving filth! You will never..." Grar ignored him and began shouting in Khuzdul. Bilbo cursed for what seemed the millionth time that he had never been permitted to learn the language, but he knew this was a bad, bad development. Whatever his other sins, Grar had been a Scribe, and a good one; bad ones didn't rise to be Chamberlain. And if Bilbo had had one lesson drilled into him in the past fifty years, it was that the lore of the dwarves could be used to entrap (and even kill) as easily as any sword or axe.

Ori blanched white, and shocked everyone around him by shouting. "Archers, silence that dwarf!" A few arrows were fired but they were deflected by some black art of the ringwraith. Grar finished whatever he was saying and Thorin reeled as though he had been struck. Ori gave a whimper, and Bilbo had never heard his friend make a sound like that before. He knew something terrible had happened, but he didn't know what.

Grar sneered up at the group on the battlements. "Tsk tsk, attacking an emissary at parley, how shameful! Standards have certainly fallen in the past fifty years around Erebor. Maybe you aren't as much like Thror as I thought. Challenge has been offered, O King. As is told in the tale of Vurni the Tongueless, I have challenged on behalf of one who cannot speak Khuzdul. Little Ori there can tell you that story if you don't know it, you never were much of one for study. Face Bolg in battle, or be forsworn." Grar smiled widely again, enjoying his triumph. "And forsworn you will be, son of Thrain. I will send messages to every kingdom between here and the Bone Mountains to tell them of your shame. And I encourage you to fight, truly I do, because nothing would bring me more joy than watching you die." Silence lay heavily on the dwarves of Erebor. Thorin looked at Ori, but the Chamberlain just looked back at him helplessly. Bilbo felt his heart skip a beat and stutter, and he reeled against the stones. Surely Thorin didn't mean to fight that mountain of an orc! He clutched at Thorin's arm, but the king shook him off with a rueful glance. The interaction didn't go unnoticed by Grar. "Still got your little creature with you, I see! Amazing, really. He looks even older than me, though, so he won't be here much..."

"Shut your filthy mouth, traitor. The greatest regret of my life is sparing you in front of my father's door." Thorin was breathing heavily, clearly holding onto the last shreds of his self-control. "I will fight this Bolg, then, and take his head as I took his father's. Tomorrow morning in the first hour, have him before the gates. I will wait with my weapons, and we will fight to the death. I only hope when I have killed this Bolg that my blade can cut the lying head from your shoulders next, as I should have fifty years ago. I, Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, say this. Let..." Bilbo clutched again at Thorin, whispering frantically, trying to formulate an argument against the worst idea he had ever heard, but the king shook his head without even looking around. "Let it be recorded."

"It is heard and written," Ori said in an expressionless voice, though his eyes looked like open wounds. Grar nodded, with an expression that would probably have looked wise if he hadn't been so clearly riddled with malice. The dwarf would have spoken again, but Bolg rode forward on his warg and Grar's pony fought and almost threw him at the smell of the giant wolf. The warg didn't even glance over at the smaller animal, but the closer it got the larger it loomed and the hobbit realized just how monstrous it was. He couldn't even imagine such a beast existing, let alone allowing itself to be ridden. Bolg must have been all of seven feet tall to sit so comfortably on such an enormous mount. The wolf was as large as a battle charger, if not larger, but long and rangy, all sinewy muscle and ragged fur. Scars crisscrossed the fanged muzzle and its ears were shredded and tattered, but it looked vicious enough to pull down anything. As, unfortunately, did Bolg. Wrapped in scars and tattoos, iron plates were strapped here and there to his enormous frame. He should have looked ridiculous, but he gave an impression was of overwhelming physical strength; a giant jagged scimitar hung by his side, and a flail that must have weighed fifty pounds swung at his back.

"Little maggot," came the snarling voice of the pale orc, "I do not believe that you could have been the one to kill my father. Azog was stronger than any dwarf. But I am Bolg, and I will destroy you simply because it is said that you did it. My dishonor ends here. Tomorrow I will crush you, and when you are dead, I will eat your heart." The orc spit on the ground, and without another word turned his warg and passed the Nazgul headed back to their camp. Grar made as though to speak again, but the Nazgul rode forward and gestured. The old dwarf nodded and retreated, surprisingly obedient.

Thorin glared down at the ringwraith on its horse. "A pity for you your pet traitor doesn't know how to open the gates. Be off from my doorstep. I will deliver the body of your general tomorrow." The Nazgul laughed again, but before it could speak Thorin said "And that rumble you heard a bit ago was a welcome we prepared for your roaches trying to scurry in through our back door. Afraid the mountain seems to have fallen in on them. So unstable, those old caves." The Nazgul drew itself up.

"Laugh while you can, foolish little king. Practical jokes will not save you. Still, there is yet one member of my lord's army that you have not met. Sauron the Great has many allies, as you will see." A pillar of darkness rose from one gloved hand, shimmering in the gloom. Bilbo worried that Thorin would be attacked, but the purpose seemed to be a signal, nothing more. The still air suddenly gave way to a gale. Wind began whipping around the parapets suddenly as the hobbit wondered if the wraith had summoned a storm. The skeletal trees whipped in the sudden gusts, branches flailing. The wind itself was oddly hot, pressing them against the stones and reeking of sulfur.

The orcs in the distance all began cheering and beating their weapons against shields or the ground, rhythmically shouting " _Thrak! Thrak! Thrak!_ " Bilbo knew no Black Speech. He looked over at Ori, who shrugged and shook his head.

"What does _thrak_ mean?" he whispered furiously. A roar split the sky and a massive scaled and glowing form appeared, mighty wings outstretched and flame streaming from its jaws. Oh, the hobbit thought dumbly. ' _Thrak_ ' means 'dragon'.

=

"Thorin Oakenshield, you will not go out to fight that giant half-troll out of some ridiculous sense of honor and obligation! I... I forbid it!" Bilbo had never thought in his entire life that he would say such a thing to his husband, but he didn't know what else to do. He stood in the middle of his rooms, legs shaking and knees on fire from the long, arduous climb back to the Royal Quarters. Thorin sat in their chambers, staring into the fire, giving no indication that he had even heard his husband's words. "Thorin..." the hobbit said in a whimpering voice. "Please."

The king sighed and shook his head slowly. "I must, _azyungel_. I have no choice at all, as Grar intended. He challenged me in front of the whole city. His letters to other dwarven leaders would probably be ignored, but the people of Erebor would all know of my shame." He laughed bitterly. "Besides, I can stall for time while Dain's forces come. The ringwraith will hold back his army, and even his giant flying lizard, at least until I have done the deed or died; he wants not just to take Erebor, he wants to crush it. The soul of our people must be ground away. It is not enough for Erebor to lose; it must be broken irreparably. He seeks to use us as a lesson to the other dwarven lords that Sauron can do to any of them what he has done to us. We are to be a cautionary tale, and having his pet orc kill me will be a critical plot point in that tale... or would be, if he could kill me. I don't intend to allow that." The king stood and went over to where the hobbit stood, wringing his hands and on the verge of tears. Placing his hands on the narrow shoulders he bent down, kissing Bilbo on the forehead. "Do not worry, _ghivashel_. He is large, but so was his father, and I left his headless body on the steps of Khazad-Dum. I will not fall to this foe."

Bilbo sat gracelessly on his favorite chair, legs still shivering. "Thorin..." he knew from the look on the king's face that it was pointless to argue, but he couldn't let his objections go unsaid. "Remember our wedding? You had them use the text of Narvi and Celenae." Thorin nodded, one eyebrow lifting at the seeming change of subject. "Thorin, you are less than three years younger than Narvi was when he went to fight in Hollin. Remember what happened to him? I'm no immortal elf, but I don't want to cry at your tomb until Mahal turns me into a statue... or, more likely, the Green Lady makes me into a rosebush." Thorin's pale eyes were narrowed but by the expression on his face, he wasn't sure whether to be offended or amused.

"I am not Narvi Gatewright, _ghivashel_. First of all," he said, turning to face Bilbo fully, "I am not fighting the whole army of orcs in general combat, I'm fighting one orc. A big one, grant you, but I've killed bigger. Second, I am not much of a smith, but I am a warrior. I've kept my training up as you know." Bilbo looked away at that; it was true that Thorin enjoyed weapons training and did it when he could, but the opportunities to do so weren't as common as his argument would lead one to believe. The hobbit debated whether to raise that point, but Thorin was continuing to speak. "Third, the point is moot. Even if I were a drooling dotard with mush in my beard, I can't refuse to fight after that public challenge. If I were a cripple, or so old I couldn't move, I could name a champion to fight for me, but nobody would accept that knowing that I'm strong and in good health." The king glowered at the floor. "This is one of the reasons we teach so few people about our language and culture. To think that I would reach the fiftieth year of my reign only to be challenged in combat by a traitor Scribe on behalf of an orc. It's like something out of a _fahanon_." Bilbo snorted; it was painfully obvious to everyone but Thorin that he was a hero out of legend, and his insistence that he was nothing of the sort was patently ridiculous.

"If it's a _fahanon_ , it's a bad one. At least you have the Dragon Crown. I don't trust that Nazgul not to use sorcery to cheat." Horrible images rose in Bilbo's mind of what could be done to his husband, so many that he almost missed Thorin's rueful headshake.

"You know that isn't permitted," Thorin said. "I will leave the _Baruk Dainul_ with Fili, because it must not fall into the hands of our enemies. I won't need it to fight this orc. I wish I could take the crown, but magical weapons or items are always forbidden from being used in formal challenges. Otherwise, the one with the most magic would win. You know this, my heart. You've seen duels fought before. I am not allowed to..." The hobbit's shout of furious anguish was the equal of one of Dis' best.

"Are you mad?" he shouted. "This isn't some... some dowry dispute between honorable families! How can you stand there and tell me that you will not use the very items that we risked life and limb to get you? Who knows what sorcery this orc might have on his weapons, or what the ringwraith might do to you? You've already seen what..." he stopped speaking because Thorin's face was set and composed, making it obvious that his mind was firmly made up. Not knowing what else to do, feeling old and helpless, the hobbit burst into tears. The king moved to comfort him and Bilbo tried to fight him off, but finally gave in and sank into the comfort of Thorin's arms. "I hate it," was all the hobbit could say in a tiny, choked voice.

"I know, _azyungel_." Thorin leaned over and pressed a kiss into Bilbo's forehead. "It will work out. It has to." After a while he got up to go see to his weapons and armor for the next morning's combat, but the hobbit sat in front of the fireplace by himself, staring into space. Thorin came back after several hours, but he and Bilbo barely spoke that night. Sitting in front of the fire, Thorin rubbed the hobbit's ankles and feet which had swollen from all the exertion. Bilbo knew he wouldn't be able to make it down to the gates the next day to see the combat, but he didn't speak of it. There was no point; he knew that Thorin knew that, given the state of his legs. Of all the problems of age, he thought yet again, the body's ceaseless betrayals were one of the harshest.

That night, Bilbo got very little sleep. Tossing and turning, he heard Thorin's breathing next to him and he knew that Thorin wasn't sleeping either. They didn't speak, though once in the middle of the night Thorin's hand came and rested on the hobbit's shoulder for a time. Just that touch was enough to make Bilbo shake with miserable tears, but he didn't say anything. If they started talking, neither of them would sleep for the rest of the night. And really, Bilbo thought in anguish, what else is left to say? After a few minutes, the hand was removed and his husband's breath deepened and slowed. Green Lady, Bilbo prayed, you have given me more than any hobbit has ever had, and if I die tonight, I am still grateful for everything. Still, if there is any way, please, please help me save my family and my people. There was no reply, of course, but Bilbo finally managed to drift off to sleep. His dreams were very strange. Thorin was walking in front of him, leading him somewhere, but he wouldn't speak. Bilbo kept trying to call out, but his mouth was stopped in that way that dreams have of making one helpless. He felt as though he were swimming through treacle. Despite his increasingly desperate attempts to move forward, Thorin outpaced him, going further and further away into darkness. Then he was alone. A horrible sound came from the darkness, like tearing metal, and he knew (in that odd certainty that dreams bring) it was the sound of the dragon melting the gates from their hinges. No sooner had he thought of the dragon than it was there. Huge, red-gold and terrifying, breathing fire in all directions, it looked down at him and laughed but then held out its claw. Buried deep in the claw was a sword, so small against the size of the huge wyrm that it looked like a thorn. Remembering a childhood story of a lion with a thorn in its paw, Bilbo reached out and removed the sword, and the scales closed and healed over the wound. Suddenly he was on the dragon's back and they were flying, high above the face of Arda, looking down on everything. How did I get here, he wondered, and what happened to the dwarves and the city? He woke, shivering and sweating, but the room was empty. Thorin had clearly risen to prepare for his fight.

As Bilbo shuffled out into the main chambers, there was no sight of the king. Odd, he thought. Perhaps he's in the bath? Surely he is... but he wasn't. Thorin was gone. Bilbo almost sank to the floor in shock. He didn't even wake me for...? At that moment, it sank into him like a lead weight: Thorin didn't really expect to survive this. He didn't say goodbye because he couldn't bear to do so. There was no way Bilbo's knees and ankles would take another trip to the gate so soon after the day before, but he came within a whisker of storming out of his rooms intent on getting as close as he could. How dare that ridiculous, stubborn dwarf leave without saying anything? On the dining table, the cast aside Dragon Crown seemed to mock him. His dream seemed to haunt him; here he was, and Thorin had already gone where he couldn't follow. Evil thoughts chased each other round and round in his mind. The image of Thorin dying in dragonfire made his heart beat painfully; the image of Thorin beaten by the orc, or worse, his will chained by the Nazgul, drove Bilbo from one side of his chambers to the other, pacing and cursing. Shaking with fury, he decided that if Thorin didn't think he was going to survive, that he himself would help his husband do so. Somehow. He almost picked up the crown, blazing as always with the not-quite-there fire of magic, but hesitated. Even with the crown, what on earth could he do to help from up here? Cursing his aged, feeble body viciously, he racked his mind to think of any way he could be useful. There was nothing he could do against the massive orc; it would crush him like an ant. Likewise, there was nothing he could do against the Nazgul, at least without Glorfindel loaded into a siege weapon. That left the dragon. Thinking furiously, Bilbo paced up and down. Fighting it was clearly out of the question; even if the hobbit had been forty and at the peak of his strength, that would be even more laughable than attacking Bolg. What did he know of dragons? From the tales of Turin Turambar and the War of Wrath, he knew that they could speak, most of them anyway; he knew that they were proud, and vain, and very greedy. They had a lust for gold that was unmatched... with that thought, a desperate plan arose fully-formed in the hobbit's mind. He snatched up the crown from the table as he went by, looping it over his arm for safety and digging in Thorin's private desk for the key to his father's rooms.

When Thrain had died, the King's Chambers remained empty. Thorin kept it as a shrine to his father, at least that was the public story. The truth was that he kept it as a shrine to the gold-lust and madness that afflicted some in the line of Durin. When the king went to his father's rooms, he could be forcibly reminded of the consequences of allowing a lust for money to override the more wholesome emotions. Bilbo had been in there a few times over the years with Thorin, but he found it horrible and morbid. The bed where Thrain had died was still in place, still made up with rotten, rumpled sheets and half-filled with golden coins. The room was a magpie's nest of gold and jewels, valuable items strewn with no regard for quality or craftsmanship across every available surface. Dust had mounded up in the room, and cobwebs. It reminded Bilbo far too much of the hoard chamber in Sarkhubuland... a massive pile of valuables in a dark, dusty, terrible place. If anywhere in the mountain was haunted, the hobbit thought, it would be Thrain's awful rooms. Normally he would have avoided going there at all costs, but today his old legs could barely get him there fast enough. As soon as he entered, he saw what he wanted - a large, ridiculously gaudy golden cup, covered in cast scenes of revelry. He snatched it up and filled it with coins from the bed, then took the heavy vessel in shaking arms to the door that led to the passage out to Yavanna's garden. He hoped he had enough strength to do this one last thing for Thorin. If the Green Lady was kind, perhaps he could at least offer a distraction for long enough to save his husband's life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is going to be Thorin's POV, because apparently nobody ever told him something everyone knows. Never, ever, under any circumstances, split the party.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin goes to fight, and we see one half of the battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hate me.

When the first quarter bell rang, it broke Thorin's heart to rise and walk away from the sleeping form of Bilbo. He hated doing it. Everything in him wanted to wake his husband, but he couldn't face another fight with him about going to watch the ritual combat. Bilbo's legs wouldn't make that trip; he had been so tired and feeble during their trip back from the gates the day before that Thorin worried he would have to either carry his husband or call for a litter, and wouldn't that have been a fight for the record books? No, the king thought, he needed to go with Bilbo's smile in his mind, not angry words or tears. Either he would come back himself, or he would wait in the Halls of Mahal to apologize. He can shout at me when I return, and I will smile and take it, if only I can return to be shouted at by him.

The king made his way out of the darkened bedroom and closed the door, then stoked up the fire. He knew his husband would want the warmth when he awoke. Washing his face and the back of his neck in the bathroom, he began the process of preparing his mind for the coming fight. Despite his brave words of the night before, he didn't know how he was going to fight Bolg; the orc was bigger than a man by himself, and if he brought that oliphant-sized warg to the fray... Thorin shook himself and forced his mind to focus. Trials by combat were nothing new; he had fought several times in his youth, and three times as king. He knew that Bilbo hated it, but despite fifty years of experience, his husband was no dwarf. Hobbits were just made differently, and that was fine. Thorin understood it in his bones and blood, though; it was the way Mahal had made his children. Sometimes there was nothing else for it but fight - bad blood went too deep, a dispute had dragged on too long, the king himself had wronged someone, any one of a number of situations. In the end, though, nothing would do but that the judgement of Mahal be sought directly over that of any ruler. The king just hoped that Mahal was still pleased with him as king, because today he faced a serious challenge.

Passing out of the Consort's Quarters, he went through the halls of the royal complex to the King's Armory. Practically abandoned during his father's madness, now the smell of armor polish and the bitter scent of leather oil filled a space that was warmly lit and filled with display racks and stands containing truly magnificent arms and armor. All of the armor was made for him to his measurements, a testimonial to the skill of the armorers and craftsmen of Erebor. His personal attendant came over, young face sober and filled with concern, and helped the king strap himself into the steel skin he would wear for the day's fight. A corselet of steel leaves gave him full mobility, a butter-soft leather undertunic providing comfort and padding. His shoulder armor was light but durable, a thin strip of mithril worked into the pauldrons at the joints to prevent a blow from severing the limb, and a high reinforced metal collar shielded his neck. Thigh and shin guards led down to steel capped boots, and a thin strip of mithril was also embedded in the hip guards and poleyns which protected the knees for the same reason as the shoulders. Gloves of carefully fitted scales of steel gave his hands full mobility, but protected them from stray strikes. A half-helm left his face exposed - a risk, he knew, but Thorin couldn't bear the stifling darkness of a full helm. As if the dangers of trapped sweat weren't bad enough, the risk of a turned helm had been seen enough in his youth; more than one fight had ended in the court of Thror where the helm had twisted around on a combatant's shoulders, rendering the fighter blind, helpless, and soon dead. Kill me if you can, Thorin had shouted to Thrain after one such fight, but not while I'm blind! His father had simply chuckled and given in to his son's whims. Remembering Thrain gave him pause, as it always did; it was heartwrenching to remember the kind father of his youth and compare him with that shriveled figure on the bed in his final days, half-buried in coins and gems. Durin's beard, Thorin thought, aren't we morbid this morning? He chose his favorite sword, the same one he had taken so long ago to fetch a hobbit who would become the center of his world, and a sturdy shield with his raven emblem painted on it. He missed the Axe of Dain more than he would admit to anyone, even Bilbo, but these would do. He had passed the _Baruk Dainul_ to Fili the night before to remove any temptation this morning. The young attendant whispered "Give us victory, my king." He was the first to say it that day and Thorin smiled at the youth's earnestness. Clapping the young armorer on the shoulder, he went out into the hall and out of the Royal Quarter, stopping only to gather an escort of three guards.

"Give us victory, my king," came on all sides. Despite the early hour, before the sun even rose, each step he took presented Thorin with more faces. Most were smiling, but there were scowls in the crowd, and some were fearful, especially the dwarrowdams with small children. Mahal, give me victory not for myself, but for these my people, he thought. Smiling, he nodded and the crowds parted to make way for him. A wave of doubt crashed over him, and only years of training kept his concerns off his face. What if he failed? What if he was unable to keep them safe, these people who relied on him? What if, what if? Doubts chased themselves around his mind and he fought with himself to keep smiling. Bilbo would be awake by now, he suspected, and probably cursing his name for leaving without waking him. Guilt for that stabbed at him, more fodder for the doubts that plagued him. Stop, he thought sternly. Enough. You need to focus your mind on victory! And victory seemed further away than before, since the ringwraith revealed his secret weapon. A dragon! Who even knew there was still a firedrake left in the world? Nobody alive had seen one, certainly not fought one. He wondered if this whole process were just an elaborate ruse, and if he would walk out of the gates into dragonfire and death without ever seeing Bolg. He supposed he would see soon enough.

The lower in the mountain he went, the slower his progress. His people stood lining the way. Every age and social class were represented there; nobles stood with miners, craftsmen, and cleaners, ancient dwarves with long beards and toothless jaws stood beside tiny pebbles, fingers in their mouths and confusion in their eyes. The same phrase was on every set of lips. "Give us victory, my king." A heavy burden to put on me, Thorin said to himself, then cursed himself for the thought as unworthy as soon as it had passed. When he entered the Great Market, the stillness was eerie. Few dwarves had come here, and the market was well-lit by the lamps but there was no movement. Thorin walked forward, and motioned for his guards to fall back. There was no threat here. Looking up at the enormous statue of Mahal forging the seven kings, he remembered entering the mountain with the _Baruk Dainul_ , climbing those steps and showing it to the city. He slowly walked up the steps again, stopping at the top and kneeling heavily in his armor. He had no time to travel to the temple in the deeps, but he had time to pray.

"Mahal," he whispered, "great father of us all, hear me this day. I am Thorin, your servant. I have tried my whole life to be a good king, and you have given me such blessings that I feel overwhelmed. You have kept my kingdom safe and made it rich; you have given us good health and good food; you have given me in particular love and joy. I thank you for these riches. If I die today, I will die content, but I beg you on behalf of my people, protect them from this evil. Do not let this mountain fall to Sauron and his filth. Father, save us." He waited, he wasn't even sure for what, but only silence greeted his prayer. So be it, he thought. Standing back up with some trouble, he made his way back down to the soldiers. "Let's go," he said curtly. They nodded and the group moved towards the front gate. 

When he arrived at the gate, he walked out into the dim light of early morning, at least such light as the thick clouds permitted. Soldiers stood on all sides, lining a path to the gates. Even more looked down from every available flat surface, walkways and platforms leading up the mountain were lined with faces until Thorin felt as though he stood alone on the floor of the great temple and the whole mountain looked at him at once. When he appeared, he stepped out into the open and then stopped. All the soldiers saluted as one, fists slamming to chests. " _Yanad durinul_!" rolled out into the morning gloom. Sons of Durin indeed, he thought. If nothing else, may I not bring shame to my ancestors this day.

General Mun stood at the front of the soldiers assembled there before the gate. Mun bowed low, lower than Thorin had ever seen, and said "Give us victory, my king," and the soldiers shouted their agreement. He raised his sword to all of them in salute. Isn't this a pretty picture, Thorin thought, let's hope we have reasons to cheer tonight. Fili watched him from the shadows, the Axe of Dain on his back. His face was smiling at his uncle, but his eyes were full of worry and pain. Thorin almost spoke, but just nodded and gave a half smile. Fili looked down, and Thorin walked on; no need to embarrass the lad. With that the heavy gates were opened just enough to allow him to go out with his three guards. The guards stayed behind, close to the gate, while Thorin walked forward far enough to make it clear they wouldn't be allowed to help. He knew that they wouldn't be much help in the case of treachery; he almost told them to stay inside, but he knew they would take it as an insult to their honor. Brave lads, he thought. In truth, he was glad they were there. No dwarf liked to be truly alone. 

The crash of the gates closing behind him made him wonder what Bilbo would have seen or felt. He knew that there were runes woven into the gates, and that supposedly they worked differently when closed, but that had always been a mystery to him. Just as well, though; being a king was bad enough, being a king with the Deep Sight would be horrible. One more thing to worry about. That thought had him laughing, at least until he saw a small party coming up the road from the enemy camp. 

Looking out, Thorin realized that the field of boulders marking the approach to the mountain had been decimated in the night, but scars and the smell of scorched flesh showed where trap after trap had been triggered by orcish work crews. Nevertheless, the field of boulders was less than half of what it had been. The shape of the Nazgul was clearly visible as they rode towards the gates, as was the hulking form of Bolg on his enormous warg. Three other orcs, almost as large, followed behind their leader. From what Thorin knew of orcs, they were most likely his bodyguards, but also his most likely successors, come to keep an eye on him. If he was weakened or wounded enough in the fight, they might take him down themselves, and wouldn't that be a grand joke? In the back, riding a clearly unhappy pony, was the squat form of Grar. As the challenger's 'interpreter', he had the right to be there, though Thorin suspected he would come just to gloat even if he had no right at all to be present. As the group approached, the morning gloom thinned; of course, the king thought sourly, we have to make sure all the troops can see their general killing the dwarf. With a humorless grin, he wondered if the clouds would suddenly reappear if he killed the giant orc. Probably not, he was forced to conclude; either the Nazgul or the other orcs behind Bolg would just come cut him down.

"Thorin! Lovely morning to die, isn't it?" came the cry from Grar, offensively cheerful and utterly predictable. "Nice armor! You look positively regal. Pity it won't..."

"Complete the challenge, traitor, and shut up." The king growled. Grar looked like he wanted to continue the banter, but a lifted hand from the Nazgul made him bow his head and step forward. Thorin couldn't resist getting a bit of his own back. "See? Even your new master agrees with me. I'm sure they're all as tired of your mouth as I am. More so, since they've had to put up with you for..."

"Silence." The Nazgul's voice sent a cold shiver through him, rattling in his bones. Oh, Thorin thought. Blast. That's what the crown's been protecting me from, then. I owe Bilbo an apology; I didn't realize how bad it felt. The empty cowl turned to Grar where he glowered at the king. "Proceed."

Grar rode forward, and his pony's eyes were rolling to show white at the smell of the giant wargs on all sides. "Challenge was given, and accepted. Bolg, son of Azog has challenged Thorin, son of Thrain on a point of honor, related to the killing of his father." He issued the ritual injunction to combatants in Khuzdul, but Thorin didn't hear him. Just the sound of Azog's name sent Thorin's pulse pounding. Please, not now, he thought. He hated that something had that much control over his behavior, but he wasn't always able to resist. The battle had been... No. Focus. He forced his mind back to business as the warg rode up. He had to make a good show; it seemed as though every eye in the mountain was on him.

"Dismount and fight then." Thorin said. Bolg laughed, tattoos writhing on a face which was a mask of scorn.

"The warg is part of me; he is my brother, I am his pack. He would not permit me to hunt without him." Ah, Thorin thought. Lovely. So I have to fight two monsters instead of one. Right. He laughed mirthlessly.

"Then come and die." The only answer was a snarl of rage. The warg leaped forward, but Thorin had moved already. He hadn't trained as much as he had claimed to Bilbo the night before, but he was far from out of shape. Teeth clashed in the air where he had been only a moment ago, and the king's ironbound oak shield came around and slammed into the warg's ear. It yelped and pulled back as the giant flail crashed into the ground, missing its strike. Perhaps this won't be so bad, Thorin thought. He can't aim that massive chunk of steel if I keep his mount off balance.

"I will feast on your flesh! You are weak, maggot!" Bolg called out. Thorin ignored him. The king ducked and turned, avoiding a lunge by the warg and clipping the same ear with the edge of his sword, though he was too out of position for a proper strike. The warg growled deep in its throat, sounding like rocks grinding together. After two more passes, neither side could get a solid hit, but Thorin was beginning to feel the exertion. A string of drool flipped from the warg's jaws and he dodged, but the slime got on his chest, making him exclaim in disgust. Dust rose around him from the path, and the king worried a bit. He was having trouble keeping track of the dancing paws in front of him as well as the whirling flail that could drop at any moment. He knew he wasn't as young as he once was, and one slip could be catastrophic. Very well, he thought. Let's simplify this fight a bit.

He feinted right and then rolled to the left. The wolf lunged for where he should have been, overextending itself enough that Thorin's blade found its furry throat. He stabbed with all his strength and felt his blade slide deep into the meat of its neck. Before he could feel a moment of triumph, though, the flail fell directly onto his shield, shattering it and throwing him backwards. When he fell, he rolled instinctively to avoid getting hit and when his shield arm met the ground the world flashed white with agony. The watching orcs cheered and mocked the dwarf for his wound, but it was Bolg's shout of fury that brought Thorin back to himself. He thrust himself back up from the ground, left arm dangling uselessly, but somehow against all odds his sword had come with him. The orc picked himself up from where he had fallen, drawing his scimitar. The warg was twitching as it bled out, throat a ruined mess of gore.

"Your death will be slow and miserable for that," the orc said viciously. "I raised that warg from a pup." As he said that, a booming roar overhead interrupted the fight and drew every eye. The dragon soared past, and landed somewhere on the mountainside. Thorin realized it was likely the shrine of Yavanna, and he was glad Bilbo wasn't there to see it. his husband loved that shrine, and seeing it defiled like that would break his heart.

"You said... he was your brother," Thorin panted. "No brother... of yours... will live." Bolg stalked forward and drew back his sword. Thorin lunged forward to catch and riposte, but as he did so the Nazgul screamed, long and wailing, sending knives through Thorin's brain. A coldness settled in his bones. Bolg sneered, but even he was affected, moving a bit slower. The problem is, he is used to it, Thorin thought in despair. I am not. He staggered back, Bolg's blows raining down like rocks thrown by a giant. The effect slowly passed, but the dwarf was feeling his age. Bolg clearly wasn't. He circled, sneering, giant jagged blade held at the ready, seeming like he was barely exerting himself.

"Do you feel it?" Bolg taunted. "The heaviness in your arms and legs? The tightness in your chest? It is because you are old. Your breath is heavy, your sweat is sour." He sniffed deeply and grinned, fangs flashing in a mouth that looked more froglike than any human face. "Soon, you will die." He leapt forward, blade crashing down, but Thorin ducked out of the way, flicking his sword out to cut the orc's arm. Bolg jerked back at the last moment, ending up with only a shallow slice instead of the deep cut Thorin intended, but he roared nonetheless. Another scream from the Nazgul made the dwarf want to go to his knees. Hopelessness and despair rolled over him, thick and choking. Why was he even fighting, he wondered. The orc was right, damn him... he was going to die. He barely blocked another vicious cut. Staggering, he threw himself backwards as the orc pressed him. The scimitar slammed against his wounded arm and he cried out, but through the grace of Mahal it was only the flat of the blade. It felt the same as if it had been severed, Thorin thought. Surely that couldn't hurt any worse. One more scream out of that black devil and I will be dead, and that will be the end of it.

He hesitated to take his eyes off the giant orc, but there was sudden movement behind Bolg. The orc glanced behind himself and seemed shocked to see the Nazgul suddenly wheel about and ride away at top speed, the black horse's hooves seeming to flow over the landscape more than gallop normally. Aha, Thorin thought. Something's thrown a rock in their plans, at least. A huge burst of flame erupted on the mountainside above them from where the dragon had landed, and he wondered what was taking place. Surely the elven magics of the shrine weren't fighting the dragon? He looked back just in time to block a slashing blow that would have knocked his head off his shoulders. He jumped back again, trying to gain some ground, but the huge orc pressed in to claim his advantage. "I will make you suffer, little worm. Then I will eat your heart. I told you..." another blow, then another, and Thorin's sweat was dripping in his eyes as he dodged. "I am Bolg." A swiping lunge, barely avoided. "I avenge my father Azog." A sidestep and twisting cut, ducked under as Thorin swung at the orc's poorly armored leg and missed. "I am your death!" He struck and Thorin moved just in time, the sword glancing off the remains of the king's broken shield and sticking in the earth. The king saw his chance.

Ignoring the pain from his arm, Thorin delivered a strong blow, slicing deep into the orc's arm and ribs. He jostled his own broken arm again and pain shot through him, but Bolg screamed in agony and the orcs behind him started forward. Grar was already in flight back to the army on his pony, knowing that if Thorin got the chance, he was next. He pushed the pain down, heart racing in his chest. Drawing back his sword, Thorin swung with all his might. His blade cut through Bolg's armor, the iron collar he was wearing, and sheared through his neck. The head fell at his feet, the horsetail coming unbound and hair falling to cover the bulging eyes and tattooed, gaping jaws. He panted, bloody and broken but unbowed, and looked at the orcs moving towards him. "Come then," he growled, "die like your leader." Arrows began to fall as the archers tried to take out the advancing bodyguards. He heard the scuffle as the guards he had brought raced forward from the wall to engage with this new threat to their king. Typical honorless orcs, Thorin thought, trying to interfere in a duel. Behind the advancing bodyguards on their wargs, the orcish army was surging forward towards the gates. This doesn't look good, Thorin thought grimly. Then again, when did it?

Behind Thorin the dwarves cheered, seeing the giant orc fall to their king's blade. " _Yanad durinul_!" came the joyful cry. " _Thorin melhekh_!" The gates rumbled open to offer him the chance to retreat and he was sure that soldiers were closing the distance, but he kept his eyes on the forms of the orcs in front of him. As they came within striking range, they paused. The whole field seemed to grow silent. From the hillside above came a roar so loud that it stopped everything. The advancing army froze before him in confusion; in front of Thorin, Bolg's bodyguards stopped moving and looked up. Another shriek sounded from the mountainside, containing words but too far away to make them out. What in Mahal's name could be happening up there? Thorin wondered. Almost too quickly to be tracked by the eye, the firedrake leapt into the air. Down like a bolt of incandescent rage came the enormous form of the dragon, clearly furious, flames roaring from between its jaws. Its wings produced hurricanes of moving air, winds seeming to whip in all directions at once. Thorin braced himself for death by fire. Instead of targeting the dwarves, the king was astounded to see the dragonfire washing over the black-cowled sorcerers at their bloody work, destroying the sacrificial pyres that they had built and them as well. The Nazgul itself went up in a pillar of shrieking flame, dissolving like mist in the dragon's breath. It looked to Thorin as though the very armor of the Nazgul had melted. Even worse for the invaders, as soon as the sorcerers were dead, the clouds began to break up and sunlight lanced down onto the field. At the gates where Thorin stood, a shaft of brilliant sun came down directly on the orcs and wargs, making them wince and cower back, and they turned and fled. An arrow found the rearmost warg as it ran, and it fell, the orc who had been riding it now pinned beneath it. Neither of them moved again. One of the guards with Thorin laughed delightedly at the sight, and the king would have laughed as well if he hadn't been so astonished at the events before him. 

The battlefield was suddenly a rout. Goblins ran shrieking this way and that, and orcs were in blind panic, fighting each other and running in circles. The sunlight and the sudden, unexpected destruction of the sorcerers would have been bad enough to disorient the undisciplined army of orcs and goblins, but with the dragon's wrath turned on them everything dissolved into utter confusion. Trolls were turning to stone where the sunlight found them or fighting their way through their supposed comrades; their lumbering forms were crushing dozens in their haste to escape the shining rays of the sun lancing down onto the field. New shafts of sunlight appeared by the minute through large and growing rents in the sorcerous clouds. Through all of it the dragon flew screaming curses and accusations of lies and betrayal, its fiery breath shooting out and burning everything in its path indiscriminately. The goblin king's cart was abandoned in the middle of the field, its trolls fled, and the dragon wheeled over it, diving onto it with a rush and exploding the wood in all directions. It emerged with the corpulent figure of the goblin king in its jaws, looking like a cat with a tiny mouse before it swallowed the enormously fat goblin whole. Shards of wood from the shattered cart mowed down goblins who hadn't fled quickly enough. The screaming of the wounded could be heard even at Erebor's gates. Orc and goblin archers were firing at the dragon, but they might as well have been throwing clods of dirt at him; nothing made the slightest impression on the shining red-gold scales. Arrows were going in all directions, wild shots falling here and there, everywhere, even among their own troops.

Thorin stood amazed, staring upwards; he had never seen anything like it. He was so stunned he even forgot the pain of his broken arm. From behind him came the voice of General Mun saying "What do we do? Do we sally? Do we seal the gates? My king, what do we do in this?" He didn't know, he realized. This was so far beyond anything he could have expected, he wasn't sure what the correct answer was. He stared up at the dragon who seemed to be retreating back to the side of the mountain whence it came. Why would the dragon betray its own side? None of this made sense! What could possibly have happened up at the shrine to Javun? 

In his focus on these questions, the king never saw the arrow falling towards him, as it was lengthwise to him, just a tiny dot in the sky. Just for a second, Thorin wondered what the strange whistling sound was, but then there was only pain, and blackness. The last sound he heard was a shout of fear. The dwarves carried him back to the courtyard and surgeons came to look, but it was obvious to them by that time that the king was dead. The Scribes were summoned. In the midst of the mountain's grief, a horn sounded as the forces of Dain finally arrived, and the troops of Erebor poured out to meet them and help them slaughter the leaderless, directionless hordes of panicked orcs. On one side, tucked behind the gates, King Fili wept bitter tears over the corpse of his uncle and the scribes began the Song of Loss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the Thorin POV, since (as noted in the previous endnote) they split the party. The next chapter will focus on Bilbo's side of the same time period.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo's view of the great battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, don't hate me.

As Bilbo came from the passage out into the garden, he was both shocked and pleased to see that the shrine looked untouched. He shut the door behind himself; there was no need trying to get back into the mountain this way, and he dared not leave an opening to be exploited by any enemies that might come here. The dwarf door blended invisibly with the rock as it shut and the hobbit took a deep breath. He was committed now; there was no way but forward. Neither dragon nor orcs had befouled this place, and it looked peaceful and serene even under the magical darkness and louring skies the sorcerers had brought with their army. Bilbo set down the heavy golden cup full of coins in the open space where the formal garden would bloom in the summer, sighing with relief. His chest was hurting, but not like before; he suspected that the effort of carrying the heavy gold through the passages had pulled a muscle. No matter, he thought grimly, the chances he would make it down from this garden alive were small enough already. He knew that if he went over and looked over the wall, he could see the legions of orcs and trolls spreading out in all directions from the main gate, the sorcerers at their hellish bonfire weaving their witcheries, but he saw no point in it. All such a sight would bring him was doubt and despair. He stumbled back and sat on the bench in front of the beautiful statue of Yavanna Kementari, offering a deep and heartfelt prayer that he might somehow, against all odds, save his husband and his home. The sweet smell of the roses that bloomed around the statue almost year-round surrounded him, lulling him into a peaceful state of mind. Even through the scent of roses he could smell the smoke from the orc fires and the deeper sulfuric stench of dragonfire; this was still a profoundly peaceful place. The oak trees along the edges of the gardens had just dropped their leaves, heralding the buds of the new spring to come; the few maples and alders were already showing a faint fuzz of green. Crocuses and hyacinths were blooming already, tiny patches of color on the grey earth, tucked away in the grass around the paths. He took the Dragon Crown off his arm where it had been worn like a large and ungainly bracelet and set it on his brow.

The world warped about him. Suddenly everything was limned with a pale fire. Bilbo looked at the statue and saw the flicker of enchantment around it from where the elves had consecrated it. The spells on the hidden door were like a lingering scent, not apparent to the eye but clearly there. Interesting, he thought. Thorin never mentioned that he could see magical effects with this... I wonder if I can see it only because of my Deep Sight? Perhaps it intensifies and sharpens the perception of magic? More questions I most likely won't live to have answered. The life in the trees and plants was visible as a flickering flame. As he marveled at the aura of life, a terrible shriek from the Nazgul at the head of the army below made the crown twitch on his head, burning his forehead where it touched. None of the usual despair touched him, but he prayed earnestly to the Green Lady that Thorin was well braced against it. He wished, bitterly wished, that this crown could be with Thorin where it belonged instead of here. He hoped it would protect his mind from the dragon's wiles, but he would still rather it be with his husband, currently facing a Nazgul with no protection. The hobbit sent a quick prayer to the Green Lady that he could be successful somehow. He didn't even know what he hoped to accomplish, but if he could even distract the dragon long enough for Thorin to get back inside... The idea that Thorin might not survive didn't bear considering. A gale of hot wind swept through the trees, ripping branches from them and making even the huge oaks creak on their roots. The crocus flowers withered in the blast of heat, grass shriveling as an enormous shadow passed overhead. The earth shook as the massive red-gold form of the dragon landed near the cup full of gold. In a somewhat ungainly waddle the wyrm stepped forward and took the cup with one wing claw, drawing it close. Its head was as high as the top of the Great Gate. Eyes full of ancient wickedness pinned him to the bench. Bilbo realized just how stupid this was; he had made a terrible miscalculation, which would probably be his last.

The dragon's eyes were swirling pools of fire, golds and reds and rippling colors spiraling around the vertical slit pupils of a reptile. Rhythmic breaths echoed from the gaping jaws full of massive teeth, each of them almost as large as the hobbit himself. Reddish-gold scales covered the long, sinuous body of the dragon, which was built like a giant bat, with only two legs to complement the enormous wings. The body of the dragon glowed as though it contained a huge furnace; Bilbo remembered reading somewhere that the flame of the Uruloki was hot enough to destroy even powerful magical items, that it burned the spirit as well as the form. He believed it; his own soul felt shriveled in the heat coming from the giant winged beast in front of him. Even in the lack of sunlight, the heavy scales glittered with their own inner fires. If it breathed fire onto him, even the crown might not survive; Bilbo was certain he wouldn't.

No fire was forthcoming; instead the dragon spoke. "Amazing! Someone is here to greet me! Tell me, are you intended to be a sacrifice?" Bilbo saw the malicious humor flicker around the giant head similar to the almost-there shimmer of magic, and somehow knew through the crown that the wyrm meant to toy with him. Ah, he thought. So that's how the crown works. Giant nostrils snorted in air, then out again, taking Bilbo's scent and scorching the flowers. "You are far too old to be tender, and far too small to be even a mouthful. Surely the dwarves think me worth more than this! Even if I could be bought, which of course I cannot, it would take more than a tiny cup of gold and a decrepit old... whatever you are." The dragon eyed him in the manner of a snake or bird, turning his head this way and that to see the hobbit from all sides. Bilbo felt that gaze pass over him like a physical weight, assessing him from his thin, white curls to the grizzled hair on his feet. Another titanic chuckle echoed through the gardens. "I must say, though, you are strange. I do not think I am familiar with your kind, little thing. Dwarves I know, elves I know, humans I know, orcs I know too well... but what are you?" Malicious curiosity echoed through these words and rattled his head to the point where Bilbo wanted to snatch off the crown; good heavens, he thought, how did Thorin stand it?

Well, the hobbit thought, there was nothing for it but to try. Flattery, he remembered. Dragons were supposedly susceptible to flattery. Another of the awful cries came from the Nazgul on the battlefield below and Bilbo flinched, but Smaug hardly looked up from his intent focus on the old hobbit. Please, Green Lady, he prayed desperately, please let Thorin be alright. "I am old indeed, O great and noble wyrm, and as you say, I am no dwarf. But I am quite insignificant compared to your immenseness and splendor. I merely wished to see a living dragon before I died."

"Did you now?" The dragon laughed openly now, a truly malevolent sound coupled with the catlike amusement the crown showed to Bilbo. He reared himself and posed, half-extending his wings to complete the picture. His scales sparkled like gold. "And was it worth dying for, to see me so?" The vanity of the dragon flared as he spoke, showing itself to the crown like a shimmering stream hidden in the words. But wait, Bilbo thought, there was something else there, a dark thread. What is that?

"Oh yes, most tremendous of all, worth it indeed. I had read of dragons before, but words did not and could not do you justice. Truly now I understand the stories of your kind's power and magnificence, at least as much as a tiny mind such as mine can do so. The tales of Glaurung Father of Dragons and Ancalagon the Black make more sense, now that I have seen one of their living descendants!" The dragon reared back, and surprise wreathed its face. The dark thread was gone, but Bilbo knew he had seen it. If he could just keep the dragon talking...

"You have heard tales of my forebears? Truly?" The golden dragon's curiosity burned anew, shining from its eyes. "Tell me, little thing, what do you know of my kind?"

"Your kind are known to be the greatest of calamities to all other races, great wyrm. It was Glaurung who destroyed the ancient city of Nargothrond, and taking all the treasures within, piled them in a heap and there resided for years. It was said that dragons are known to be the most persuasive creatures upon the earth, since his words turned the mind of the man Turin to deeds unlike his nature." Bilbo prayed forgiveness from the Valar and his teachers for his mangling of the story, but he dared not mention the slaying of Glaurung, especially after the golden dragon's eyes half-lidded and his head bowed at the mention of the name. "Ancalagon the Black was the greatest of the dragons and drakes in the War of Wrath, and his name comes down to us through the tales of the few who survived those dark days. He was said to be so large and so mighty that he crushed the triple peaks of Thangorodrim beneath his weight. Also there was one called Scatha, called by men the Wyrm, that made its home in the Grey Mountains for a time, though it was not said to have the ability to breathe flame." Bilbo was wracking his mind for any other stories of dragons. The great dragon looked pleased, the hobbit noted, but how long that pleasure would last in the absence of new information remained to be seen.

"You are indeed knowledgeable, little creature; few among men or dwarves could say as much. Two of those were the greatest of our kind, and thus deserve to be known, though Scatha was the least of the three by far. But tell me more. Why do you not speak of Urgundur, whose flame bored through the granite side of a mountain to get to those who huddled within? Or of Sceogorath the Unyielding, who slew ten of the great eagles, one after another, until all fled from him, and he burned their nests in victory?" Pride wrapped the great dragon like a cloak, and... there! Bilbo saw it again, a dark web wrapped around the dragon's head. What was that?

"Alas, noble one, I knew them not. Our knowledge is trifling in such great matters, as your kind are known only with fear and dread." Bilbo peered at the dragon cautiously. "Though it will be of little use to me, O most magnificent of dragons, since I have but moments left to live, what is the name of the one who comes to destroy us?" The dragon leaned forward, and the increasing heat made Bilbo feel as though the skin were peeling from his face. His clothes were uncomfortably hot where they pressed against him.

"Ah, vanity! It tempts me to let you live, that my name may survive to strike fear in all who hear it. This mountain will be your tomb, but my kingdom. Know then, little creature, I am Smaug, last and now greatest of the fire drakes in the world, bearer of the flame of Utumno. Behold your ruin, and despair! My wings are a hurricane, my teeth are swords, my claws spears, and my breath is death!" With this the dragon breathed a huge gout of fire onto the oaks standing nearby and they burst into flame. Bilbo looked at the roaring conflagration in dismay and felt hope leave him, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. With the vanishing of hope, he felt desperately tired, as though all the energy he had been running on was exhausted. The hobbit stared in horror at the dragon and once again those shimmering black strands were visible, wrapped around the giant scaly head like a spiderweb. He remembered the sorcerous deceptions of the cloaked rider who had come to the gate. Oh surely not... A new idea woke in his mind, despite his exhaustion.

"I am thrice honored to both see and know you, most glorious Smaug! Indeed, you are the most tremendous of destroyers! It is an honor for the dwarves to die to such a noble dragon, truly, and a shame that the mountain cannot be your home, for truly such a one as yourself..." Bilbo saw the web flex a bit, but the dragon pinned him with a gimlet eye.

"Your honeyed words seem to have run awry, little creature. This mountain shall indeed be my home, but fear not. Your gold will be well looked after." The last sentence was accompanied by a toothy grin and the stench of sulfurous breath, but greed pulsed beneath the words like a beating heart. Bilbo put on a show of looking puzzled, not knowing how much familiarity a creature like Smaug might have with the facial expressions of other creatures. Through the crown, Bilbo could see both that the dragon believed his own words but that there was a new thread of doubt. He set out to pick at it.

"Alas, mighty Smaug, I hesitate to dispute what you say, were it not manifest that this cannot be so." The dragon glared at Bilbo for contradicting it, and in spite of himself the hobbit drew back, but continued speaking. "The sorcerers who came brought their orcs and creatures by the legion, and they made it painfully clear that they wish this mountain as a fortress full of their troops, not set aside to be the abode of a dragon, mighty though you be. Could you think that they would take their armies and depart so easily in their victory, having come all this way? Would they mobilize half the world to win a home for a dragon who could take what he wanted by himself? Surely not." The web flexed and shimmered as the dragon thought it over, spells of command fighting for control of the beast's mind with the logic Bilbo was using. "The powers of dragons to sense the truth in words is told in stories, if these stories are not false, hear my words. Are they not true?" Bilbo hoped that the crown wouldn't block Smaug's sense of his words, because he knew if he took it off his own mind would likely be the first victim. The dragon looked uncomfortable, looking this way and that.

"It... this is not what I was promised, but your words..." Smaug's eyes flared, then narrowed. "Perhaps I should just kill you and be done. This has been a pleasant diversion, but there are gates to break and dwarves to kill. Surely that stupid orc has killed the old king by now." The web pulsed around the dragon's head. Clearly rage was the tool used to maintain the spell. The dragon's wrath looked almost external to Bilbo, separate yet imposed on the long, fanged head. Bilbo fought it with logic, hoping that Smaug's truthsense was as strong as the dragons of legend.

"Sorcerers make for ill counselors, O insurmountable obstacle to peace. They deceive, promising one thing and meaning another, and their words can cast a spell convincing the mind of falsehoods when the listener is unaware." Bilbo's voice sped up, betraying his nervousness, but he could no more help it than the pounding of his heart. Exhaustion was like ashes in his mouth, and his chest hurt again like a blazing brand, but he thought he was close. Smaug drew in a breath and the hobbit feared that he would perish in flames, but the great drake stopped, frozen, eyes darting here and there as though confused. Bilbo ventured to say one more thing. "But surely magical deception is a power for dragons to use, not to have used upon them! I cannot doubt that such a tremendous and powerful being as yourself would know and recognize if such a thing had been..." Smaug suddenly bellowed, causing Bilbo's ears to ring painfully and sparks to fly in all directions from the burning trees at the garden's edge. The dark net shimmered and dissolved from around the dragon's head as Smaug realized he had been deceived, and the true fury of the fire drake was unleashed. The hobbit cowered back on his bench as tremendous wings slammed into the ground, making the statue of Yavanna rock alarmingly on its pedestal and the bench quiver as if in an earthquake.

"Betrayed! Lying filth!" Smaugh shouted in a great roar. With another deafening shriek of fury, the dragon leaped into the air without another word and streaked off like a burning arrow down the mountainside, plummeting onto the camp below. Bilbo stumbled the few yards to the wall and looked down in time to see the dragon's fire rake across the sorcerers where they stood, causing the dark-clad men to go up like living torches and burn to ash. The smoking bonfire with its sacrifices and magical arrays exploded as the wrath of the dragon passed over it, flames much hotter than anything produced by wood scattering molten metal and ash in all directions. The Nazgul who led them was began to fade, presumably attempting to flee from Smaug as it has from the Axe of Dain, but even as it vanished white-hot dragon fire poured over it and the armor it wore melted into useless slag. Something bright sparkled for a moment before being consumed in the drake's flames, and even so far away Bilbo felt a sense of easing, as though something very dark indeed had passed from the world. No sooner had the sorcerers been slain than the clouds above started to break up. Bilbo watched in amazement as shafts of sunlight fell here and there, turning some of the great war trolls to stone where they stood and sending others on rampages through their own forces. Orcs and goblins shrieked and bellowed, running this way and that, and clouds of black war-darts flew up at it but bounced from the golden scales. A great shout came from the dwarves but he couldn't hear what they said. The dragon flew here and there, flame pouring down on the field, and the vast army scattered like an anthill which had been overturned. Flight after flight of orcish arrows rose and fell, but the dragon's armor was impenetrable. Below, all was confusion. Bilbo turned and almost fell, but he tottered towards the stairs. Vague thoughts of getting in the main gates crossed his mind, since the army of shadow was utterly confounded and routed, but before he got to the steps the wind and thunder of the dragon's arrival back in the garden knocked him sprawling.

"Going somewhere?" came the great voice, massive teeth grinning down at Bilbo where he lay sprawled in the dirt. The hobbit reached out and grabbed the Dragon Crown, jamming it back down onto his thin curls where he lay as the dragon continued speaking. Bilbo gave thanks to whatever wise loremaster had not adorned it with gold; Smaug would never let him keep it if it were gilded, but hardly seemed to notice a boring circlet of ivory. "I owe you a debt, little thing, though it pains me to say so. To bend the will of a drake is unforgivable, and those who did so have been paid the wages of their deeds. You have done me a service it would seem. I will let you live, I think." A great rumbling sound came, like the largest cat in the world purring. "I will not share my hoard with you, but you may take what personal possessions you wish from this place... so long as they are not of gold." Smaug reached one claw out and daintily lifted up the gold cup full of coins which Bilbo had set down, pulling it close.

"O Smaug the incomparably magnificent, my life is not worth much, I fear, and is not enough to pay such a debt." Bilbo's mind raced frantically. "I would not ask you to depart unrewarded, but surely..." A disdainful snort cut his words short.

"I will not give up this prize so easily, little thing. I have been brought here, by deception or not, with the promise of great riches. The hoard I had in the north has no doubt already been pillaged by my lesser kin; there is nothing to return to even were I so inclined, which I most definitely am not. This mountain is full of gold, I can smell it." Scaly nostrils flared wide. Bilbo tossed ideas around frantically, gold, maybe they could bring out... nowhere to store gold... gold. A thought occurred, and he took one last roll of the dice.

"Indeed, the mountain is not so rich as you might think, O Smaug the irresistibly mighty. But I can tell you where there is a hoard with no guardian, much richer than anything that you would find here. It was gathered by one of your kin long ago, but that dragon is dead. I regret I do not know its name, to tell you that it might be remembered." Bilbo felt his heart sink at the look of dismissal on the great face, but greed sparkled in the back of the glowing eyes, laid bare by the crown. Still the dragon scoffed.

"And why should I believe you? Surely you would tell me anything to get me to go away." Glowing eyes stared deep into Bilbo's, and he was quite sure that without the crown he would be utterly swept away by the tremendous will of the dragon. He felt a wave of power batter against his mind like a great wind, then recede. "You resist me..." Smaug said in a puzzled tone. "You are a tiny thing, but there is something of a dragon about you, all the same. You said several times that you had not seen a 'living dragon'; now my curiosity burns me. When have you seen a dead dragon?" Cavernous nostrils snuffled at the air, scenting the hobbit again. Bilbo knew better than to explore the idea of the Dragon Crown; if he mentioned anything of the origins of the crown he wore, he would end as a smudge of ash.

"I have only seen one dead dragon, and it was not even vaguely comparable in size or splendor to your own magnificence. It was in the same place of which I spoke, which is how I knew..." The dragon interrupted Bilbo.

"These flattering words are very nice, but they begin to bore me. Speak plainly. What is this place, and how came you there?" The dragon's tail coiled around its feet, and it seemed to settle down, mantling its great batlike wings and tucking its feet under it. Bilbo knew that it could move with lightning swiftness at any moment. He suspected that dragons were most dangerous when they appeared most at ease, and the crown revealed that Smaug was at a knife's edge balance between greed, curiosity and irritation. He chose his words carefully.

"As you wish. In the northern mountains to the west, at the end of the old dwarf road and the headwaters of the river that passes through the great forest, there is a canyon. In that canyon, there is a ruined city built by dwarves which was taken by a dragon long ago. In my youth, I went there with others to seek treasure. We were foolish, but we thought that perhaps we could sneak past the dragon if it was still alive." Only the truth, Bilbo reminded himself. One lie and I will die so swiftly I won't even notice it. "When we arrived, the dragon was dead. Stories said that it was a cold drake, which presumably means that unlike your own magnificence, it had no fire. It had died there, but not before it had amassed a treasure far greater, immensely greater, than anything this mountain holds. This great hoard lies in the second chamber past the gates, and possesses easily twice the treasure of this mountain, even were all our gold brought forth from the whole kingdom and assembled in one place." All true, the hobbit knew. In all his years as Prince Consort, he still had never seen anything to compare with the treasures of Sarkhubuland. Smaug snorted a plume of smoke, eyes lidded and seemingly bored, but gold-lust and interest burned clear as day to the crown. The sunlight struck the dragon, sending sparkles down its rippling scales. It was a pity Smaug was so terribly dangerous, Bilbo thought, for he was astonishingly beautiful.

"'Died.'" Smaug said, but the intonation was not a question. "For your information, little thing, dragons do not just 'die'. We are slain, or we live. We are superior in that respect to all other creatures except the damnable elves. If someone or something killed this unknown drake, it would have looted the treasure. You mean to tell me that the gold is still there? You took none of it?" The great head lowered until the nose was less than twenty feet from Bilbo's body, each fang the length of him and choking him with its boiling, stinking breath. "I find this very difficult to believe." He felt Smaug's truthsense pressing against him, sliding over him like a heavy stone on his mind.

Thinking frantically back to what was taken, Bilbo thought of the crown he wore, the mithril coronet Thorin gave him, the gems Ori and Dwalin took... "Not a piece of gold was taken. What gold we found remains there." Technically true, but true nonetheless. Smaug drew back in amazement and snorted again, but he knew the truth when he heard it. A wave of heat washed out over the hobbit, who sat up gingerly. He knew his aged body couldn't take much more abuse. "While we explored, we discovered even more gold there ungathered. Above the main hoard there is a hall which contains a throne made of gold-wrapped gems which the first drake never found. The hall behind it is lined with gold, and each room is filled with golden items." Lambent eyes narrowed and a coil of smoke rose from each nostril. Suspicion and greed fought with each other, but greed was winning. Describing gold to a dragon was like describing food to a gourmand, it seemed. The great tail lashed side to side, whipping over trees and destroying gardened areas.

"I notice you still neglect to mention how this drake was slain. Another drake would have kept the hoard and killed you all; men or dwarves or even elves would have looted the treasure, leaving only scraps. No wandering beast could kill even the least of my kin. So I ask again: what killed the one who held the hoard?" Bilbo sighed.

"An ancient darkness, a shadow of the Void. It came up from the deep places of the world long before we arrived. It slew one of my companions. The rest of us survived by happenstance." Carefully, Bilbo thought to himself. This is the heart of it. If ever I have earned the name Silvertongue, let today prove it. "One of my companions had a weapon of the elder times, one of great power. He wounded the shadow badly and it fled. It may have died since then; it was sorely wounded. We fled in fear, and dared not return. But it is likely that the shadow would flee from you, even if you had stumbled upon the hoard without guidance: it cannot bear light or fire, and your fire is no ordinary flame. Your kin had no such weapon to defend itself, only the strength of jaw, claw and wing, or so the stories say." Another dull rumble came from the drake, but no expression changed on the great face.

"And if I go and find this city and discover that you have found a way to lie to me? What then?" Smaug looked almost sleepy, but Bilbo could tell that irritation and hunger were winning over curiosity. He decided he had pushed his luck far enough. All he had left was bluntness.

"Then you return, kill us all, and take our mountain. Really, great Smaug, how would we oppose you? I tell you of this greater hoard in an attempt to get you to let us live, nothing more. But nothing I have said is a lie, and you know this yourself." The dragon's tail lashed from one side to the other, and the narrowed eyes and sulky expression made it look like the world's largest irritated house cat. Greed burned in the glowing eyes, though, and the crown made that very evident indeed.

"You are lucky to be so old and scrawny, little thing, whatever you are. If you were large and fat, I would eat you, service or no, for after my efforts today I find myself hungry. I suppose orc and goblin will do, though. Very well, I will go and find this place, and see for myself. And if it should happen that the hoard is not as you have represented, I will return and there will be no speaking. This is the full repayment of the debt between us, that I shall go to see if you have somehow deceived me. It would be well for you to be dead already if I return to this place, for this is all the mercy that you shall receive." With no warning, the giant dragon exploded into motion, leaping into the air, the cup full of coins still clutched firmly in one enormous talon. Bilbo was knocked flat again with the wind of his passage. The burning oaks across the garden collapsed in the massive gale, crumbling into ash and fiery ruin. 

Bilbo lay on the dirt, offering thanks to the Green Lady for his improbable survival, then slowly pulled himself upright. His chest was hurting worse than it had in ages, and all his exposed skin was blistered and scorched from the impossible heat of the fire-drake, but he was alive. He fetched his stick and picked his painful way to the stairs, looking out on the rout of the army of Sauron. Sun blazed down on the field with the dispersal of the necromantic clouds, and stone pillars stood here and there as markers of where mountain trolls had been before being exposed to the light of day. Goblins staggered this way and that, blinded by the radiant daystar they traditionally avoided. The gates were open, he could see, and the dwarves had sortied out, slaughtering orcs and goblins with grim efficiency. Horns sounded in the distance, clear and ringing, and he knew that either Dain or perhaps Thranduil had arrived, so the mountain was saved. Bilbo was exhausted, but he was confident that if he got down to the entrance, he could pass within. Thorin, he realized. Where is Thorin? The thought of celebrating with his husband made him want to hurry a bit, though he was so tired and his chest hurt so badly he couldn't do much. Oin would be furious at the strain, but he had such news to share. He couldn't wait to tell Thorin about this one last mad adventure; surely nobody else had ever managed to talk a dragon out of attacking their home!

As he staggered down the steps leading down the mountainside from the garden, he heard a strange wailing sound. Bilbo's brow furrowed; he knew that sound, but couldn't place it. For the thousandth time that week, he cursed his increasingly feeble memory. By the Green Lady, he couldn't remember ever being so tired, but that sound... Why was it so familiar? Then he heard a dwarven voice calling out " _Shaghun, ran ran, shaghun_ " and he recognized the Song of Loss. The last time he had heard it sung, he was new-come to Erebor and Thorin's father had passed from the gold sickness. Ori had practically shouted it in his ear. It was the song he had feared to hear for fifty years. To hear that song meant that the king, that _Thorin_ was dead. A wave of unbearable sorrow shot through him. Blinded by tears, he tried to run forward but his legs seemed to have reached their limits. Bilbo's heart gave a great lurch and felt as though it exploded in his chest. Pain spread through his entire body, greater than anything he had known. Oh, he thought dazedly. Fire shot down his legs and arms, agony twisted his face. Thorin, he thought despairingly. Thorin. He stumbled, then fell, and darkness closed over him like a wave, followed by an explosion of light. Unseen, above him, the roses around Yavanna's statue all shriveled and fell to the ground. He never heard the weeping as the dwarves found his tiny, crumpled body; he wasn't there for the second ululating sob and Song of Loss, as Erebor mourned a King and a Prince Consort in the same day.

=

_From the Mazarbul of the Fourth Kingdom of Erebor, written by Ori Chamberlain:_

_The end of the reign of Thorin II, called Oakenshield, passed in this wise. A great army of tens of thousands of orcs, goblins, men and trolls laid siege to Erebor, led by sorcerers and a shadow-wraith of Sauron. With them came a fire drake, the likes of which had not been seen in the Third Age. Bolg, the get of Azog who slew Thror and many others, demanded the king come forth and fight. The Words of Challenge were spoken on his behalf by a traitor who shall remain nameless and erased, a former Chamberlain to King Thrain thrown down by Thorin. Thorin II, fearful that the Axe of Dain would be lost, yielded it to his heir Fili, later King Fili I Goldenhand, before the battle. The king went before the gates in single combat against Bolg, and was victorious though after he fell to treachery. The king defeated the great orc despite terrible wounds, hewing in one stroke through iron collar and neck alike; this deed was done in the face of the distraction provided by the vile creature who led the army, who had a spell of despair that weakened all who heard it. King Thorin was struck down in his victory through the eye by a cowardly arrow of the orcs even in his victory over Bolg. Let it not be forgotten._

_Bilbo Baggins, Prince Consort, called Silvertongue, Openhand and Hand of Mahal, went alone with the Dragon Crown of Tumunzahar to face the fire drake who came with the army. None know what was done or said upon that mountain, though the parley took place in the Garden of Javun. The dragon landed and breathed fire, but scarce an hour passed before the drake rose and attacked its own army, presumably at the word of the Prince Consort. Never before or since has such a deed been accomplished. The general of the army was destroyed, along with a host of sorcerers, the dwarven traitor, and countless orcs and other creatures. The dragon returned to the garden briefly, then flew away to the west, and has not been seen again. Bilbo Silvertongue saved the mountain of Erebor from destruction as his final act, but perished on the steps to the garden from the failing of his aged body. Let it not be forgotten._

_The High Ones themselves took note of these deaths. At the death of Thorin II, the great bell of Mahal in the temple cracked in half. At the death of the Consort the roses of Javun shriveled and died. The Valar themselves mourn the loss of these noble hearts. Their tombs lie in the heart of the mountain, and there they shall stay until the remaking of the world. Let them not be forgotten._


End file.
